THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

California  State  Library 


Tie  shall  torieit  ana 


e  State  Library,  passed 


ept  a  register  of  all 
the  members  of  trie- 
close  of  the  session. 
en  from  the  Librajy, 
nefit  of  the  Library, 
"onlroller  shall  issue  his 


three  times  the  value  thereof;  and  befor 
warrant  in  favor  of  any  member  or  officer  of  ^^Legislature,  or  of  this 
State,  for  his  per  diem,  allowance,  or  salary,  he  shall  be  satisfied  that 
such  member  or  officer  has  returned  all  books  taken  out  of  the  Library  by 
him,  and  has  settled  all  accounts  for  injuring  such  books  or  otherwise. 
Sec.  15.  Books  may  be  taken  from  the  Library  by  the  members  of  the 
Legislature  and  its  officers  during  the  session  of  the  same,  and  at  any 
time  by  the  Governor  and  the  officers  of  the  Executive  Department  of 
this  State  who  are  required  to  keep  their  offices  at  the  seat  of  government, 
the  Justices  of  the  Supreme  Court,  the  Attorney -General  and  the  Trustees 
of  the  Library. 


CALIFORNIA  STATE  LIBRARY. 


This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 

A  book  may  be  kept  for  three  weeks  and  renewed 
for  two  weeks  longer. 

A  fine  of  five  cents  a  day  will  be  charged  on  over- 
due books. 


1  8  1914 

28 
JA1M  8 

*>UE   0£C2  9'44 


THE 

NOVELS          "VJ 

or 

CHAELES  BROCKDEN  BROWN, 

CONSISTING   OP 

WIELAND;   OR,   THE  TRANSFORMATION. 
ARTHUR  MERVYN;   OR,   MEMOIRS  OF  THE  YEAR  1793. 
EDGAR  HUNTLY;    OR,   MEMOIRS  OF  A  SLEEP-WALKER. 

JANE  TALBOT. 

ORMOND;    OR,   THE   SECRET  WITNESS. 
CLARA  HOWARD  ;  OR,  THE  ENTHUSIASM  OF  LOVE. 


COMPLETE  AND  EEVISED   EDITION. 


VOL.    V. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
PUBLISHED    BY    M.   POLOCK, 

No.  406  COMMERCE  STREET. 

1857. 


JANE   TALBOT, 


CHAELES  BROCKDEX  BROWX. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
PUBLISHED    BY    M.   POLOCK, 

No.  6  COMMENCE  STREET. 

1857. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1857,  by 
M.  1'OLOCK, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  Kaste:  n 
District  of  Pennsylvania. 


PS 


JANE    TALBOT. 


LETTER  I. 
To  Henry  Golden. 

Philadelphia,  Monday  Evening,  October  3. 

I  AM  very  far  from  being  a  wise  girl.  So  conscience 
whispers  me,  and,  though  vanity  is  eager  to  refute  the 
charge,  I  must  acknowledge  that  she  is  seldom  successful. 
Conscience  tells  me  it  is  folly,  it  is  guilt,  to  wrap  up  my 
existence  in  one  frail  mortal ;  to  employ  all  my  thoughts, 
to  lavish  all  my  affections,  upon  one  object ;  to  dote  upon 
a  human  being,  who,  as  such,  must  be  the  heir  of  many 
frailties,  and  whom  I  know  to  be  not  without  his  faults ;  to 
enjoy  no  peace  but  in  his  presence,  to  be  grateful  for  his 
permission  to  sacrifice  fortune,  ease,  life  itself,  for  his  sake. 

From  the  humiliation  produced  by  these  charges, 
vanity  endeavours  to  relieve  me  by  insinuating  that  all 
happiness  springs  from  affection ;  that  nature  ordains  no 
tie  so  strong  as  that  between  the  sexes ;  that  to  love 
without  bounds  is  to  confer  bliss  not  only  on  ourselves 
but  on  another  ;  that  conjugal  affection  is  the  genuine 
sphere  not  only  of  happiness  but  duty. 

Besides,  my  heart  will  not  be  persuaded  but  that  its 
fondness  for  you  is  nothing  more  than  simple  justice. 
Ought  I  not  to  love  excellence,  and  does  my  poor  ima- 
gination figure  to  itself  any  thing  in  human  shape  more 
excellent  than  thou? 

But  yet  there  are  bounds  beyond  which  passion  cannot 
go  without  counteracting  its  own  purposes.  I  am  afraid 
mine  goes  beyond  those  bounds.  So  far  as  it  produces 
rapture,  it  deserves  to  be  cherished ;  but  when  productive 

3 

832614 


4  JANE    TAL1JOT. 

of  impatience,  repining,  agony,  on  occasions  too  that 
are  slight,  trivial,  or  unavoidable,  'tis  surely  culpable. 

Methinks,  my  friend,  I  would  not  have  had  thee  for  a 
witness  of  the  bitterness,  the  tumult  of  my  feelings, 
during  this  day ;  ever  since  you  left  me.  You  cannot 
conceive  any  thing  more  forlorn,  more  vacant,  more  anx- 
ious, than  this  weak  heart  has  been  and  still  is.  I  was 
terrified  at  my  own  sensations,  and,  with  my  usual  folly, 
began  to  construe  them  into  omens  of  evils ;  so  inade- 
quate, so  disproportioned  was  my  distress  to  the  cause 
that  produced  it. 

Ah  !  my  friend !  a  weak — Tery  weak — creature  is  thy 
Jane.  From  excess  of  love  arises  that  weakness ;  that 
must  be  its  apology  with  thee,  for,  in  thy  mind,  my 
fondness,  I  know,  needs  an  apology. 

Shall  I  scold  you  a  little  ?  I  have  held  in  the  rein  a 
long  time,  but  my  overflowing  heart  must  have  relief, 
and  I  shall  find  a  sort  of  comfort  in  chiding  you.  Let 
me  chide  you,  then,  for  coldness,  for  insensibility:  but 
no;  I  will  not.  Let  me  enjoy  the  rewards  of  self-denial 
and  forbearance,  and  seal  up  my  accusing  lips.  Let  me 
forget  the  coldness  of  your  last  salute,  your  ill-concealed 
effort  to  disengage  yourself  from  my  foolishly-fond  arms. 
You  have  got  at  your  journey's  end,  I  hope.  Farewell. 

J.  TALBOT. 


LETTER   II. 

To  Henry  Golden. 

Tuesday  Morning,  October  4. 

I  MUST  write  to  you,  you  said,  frequently  and  copiously: 
you  did  not  mean,  I  suppose,  that  I  should  always  be 
scribbling,  but  I  cannot  help  it.  I  can  do  nothing  but 
converse  with  you.  When  present,  my  prate  is  inces- 
sant; when  absent,  I  can  prate  to  you  with  as  little 
intermission ;  for  the  pen,  used  so  carelessly  and  thought- 
lessly as  I  use  it,  does  hut  prate. 

Besides,  I  have  not  forgotten  my  promise.  'Tis  true 
the  story  you  wished  me  to  give  you  is  more  easily  com- 


JANE    TALBOT.  5 

municated  by  the  pen  than  by  the  lips.  I  admit  your  claim 
to  be  acquainted  with  all  the  incidents  of  my  life,  be  they 
momentous  or  trivial.  I  have  often  told  you  that  the  retro- 
spect is  very  mournful ;  but  that  ought  not  to  prevent  me 
from  making  it,  when  so  useful  a  purpose  as  that  of  tho- 
roughly disclosing  to  you  the  character  of  one,  on  whom 
your  future  happiness  is  to  depend,  will  be  affected  by  it. 
I  am  riot  surprised  that  calumny  has  been  busy  with  my 
life,  and  am  very  little  anxious  to  clear  myself  from 
unjust  charges,  except  to  such  as  you. 

At  this  moment,  I  may  add,  my  mood  is  not  unfriendly 
to  the  undertaking.  I  can  do  nothing  in  your  absence 
but  write  to  you.  To  write  what  I  have  ten  thousand 
times  spoken,  and  which  can  be  perfectly  understood 
only  when  accompanied  by  looks  and  accents,  seems 
absurd.  Especially  while  there  is  a  subject  on  which 
my  tongue  can  never  expatiate,  but  on  which  it  is  neces- 
sary that  you  should  know  all  that  I  can  tell  you. 

The  prospect  of  filling  up  this  interval  with  the  relation 
of  the  most  affecting  parts  of  my  life  somewhat  reconciled 
me  to  your  necessary  absence,  yet  I  know  my  heart  will 
droop.  Even  this  preparation  to  look  back  makes  me 
shudder  already.  Some  reluctance  to  recall  tragical  or 
humiliating  scenes,  and,  by  thus  recalling  to  endure  them, 
in  some  sense,  a  second  time,  I  must  expect  to  feel. 

But  let  me  lay  down  the  pen  for  the  present.  Let  me 
take  my  favourite  and  lonely  path,  and,  by  a  deliberate 
review  of  the  past,  refresh  my  memory  and  methodize 
my  recollections.  Adieu  till  I  return.  J.  T. 


LETTER  III. 

To  Henry  Golden. 

Tuesday  Morning,  11  o'clock. 

I  AM  glad  I  left  not  word  how  soon  I  meant  to  return, 
for  here  has  been,  it  seems,  during  my  short  absence,  a 
pair  of  gossips.  They  have  just  gone,  lamenting  the 
disappointment,  and  leaving  me  a  world  of  complimentary 
condolences. 

1* 


6  JANE   TALBOT. 

I  shall  take  care  to  prevent  future  interruption  by 
shutting  up  the  house  and  retiring  to  my  chamber,  where 
I  am  resolved  to  remain  till  I  have  fully  disburdened  my 
heart.  Disburden  it,  said  I  ?  I  shall  load  it,  I  fear, 
with  sadness,  but  I  will  not  regret  an  undertaking  which 
my  duty  to  you  makes  indispensable. 

One  of  the  earliest  incidents  that  I  remember  is  an 
expostulation  with  my  father.  I  saw  several  strange 
people  enter  the  chamber  where  my  mother  was.  Some- 
what suggested  to  my  childish  fancy  that  these  strangers 
meant  to  take  her  away,  and  that  I  should  never  see  her 
again.  My  terror  was  violent,  and  I  thought  of  nothing 
but  seizing  her  gown  or  hand,  and  holding  her  back  from 
the  rude  assailants.  My  father  detained  me  in  his  arms, 
and  endeavoured  to  soothe  my  fears,  but  I  would  not  be 
appeased.  I  struggled  and  shrieked,  and,  hearing  some 
movements  in  my  mother's  room,  that  seemed  to  betoken 
the  violence  I  so  much  dreaded,  I  leaped,  with  a  sudden 
effort,  from  my  father's  arms,  but  fainted  before  I  reached 
the  door  of  the  room. 

This  may  serve  as  a  specimen  of  the  impetuosity  of 
my  temper.  It  was  always  fervent  and  unruly,  unac- 
quainted with  moderation  in  its  attachments,  violent  in 
its  indignation  and  its  enmity,  but  easily  persuaded  to 
pity  and  forgiveness. 

When  I  recovered  from  my  swoon,  I  ran  to  my  mo- 
ther's room  ;  but  she  was  gone.  I  rent  the  air  with  my 
cries,  and  shocked  all  about  me  with  importunities  to 
know  whither  they  had  carried  her.  They  had  carried 
her  to  the  grave,  and  nothing  Avould  content  me  but  to 
visit  the  spot  three  or  four  times  a  day,  and  to  sit  in  the 
room  in  which  she  died,  in  stupid  and  mopeful  silence, 
all  night  long. 

At  this  time  I  was  only  five  years  old, — an  age  at 
which,  in  general,  a  deceased  parent  is  quickly  forgotten ; 
but,  in  my  attachment  to  my  mother,  I  showed  none  of 
the  volatility  of  childhood.  While  she  lived,  I  was  never 
at  ease  but  when  seated  at  her  knee,  or  with  my  arms 
round  her  neck.  When  dead,  I  cherished  her  remem- 
brance for  years,  and  have  paid,  hundreds  of  times,  the 
tribute  of  my  tears  at  the  foot  of  her  grave. 


JANE    TALBOT.  7 

My  brother,  who  was  three  years  older  than  myself,  be- 
haved in  a  very  different  manner.  I  used  to  think  the 
difference  between  us  was  merely  that  of  sex ;  that  every 
boy  was  boisterous,  ungrateful,  imperious,  and  inhuman, 
as  every  girl  was  soft,  pliant,  affectionate.  Time  has 
cured  me  of  that  mistake,  and,  as  it  has  shown  me  females 
unfeeling  and  perverse,  so  it  has  introduced  me  to  men 
full  of  gentleness  and  sensibility.  My  brother's  subse- 
quent conduct  convinced  me  that  he  was  at  all  times 
selfish  and  irascible  beyond  most  other  men,  and  that  his 
ingratitude  and  insolence  to  his  mother  were  only  congenial 
parts  of  the  character  he  afterwards  displayed  at  large. 

My  brother  and  I  passed  our  infancy  in  one  uninter- 
mitted  quarrel.  We  were  never  together  but  he  played 
some  cruel  and  mischievous  prank,  which  I  never  failed 
to  resent  to  the  utmost  of  my  little  power.  I  soon  found 
that  my  tears  only  increased  his  exultation,  and  my  corn- 
plaints  only  grieved  my  mother.  I,  therefore,  gave  word 
for  word  and  blow  for  blow ;  but,  being  always  worsted 
in  such  conflicts,  I  shunned  him  whenever  it  was  possible, 
and  whatever  his  malice  made  me  suffer  I  endeavoured  to 
conceal  from  her. 

My  mother,  on  her  death-bed,  was  anxious  to  see  him, 
but  he  had  strolled  away  after  some  boyish  amusement, 
with  companions  as  thoughtless  as  himself.  The  news  of 
her  death  scarcely  produced  an  hour's  seriousness.  He 
made  my  affliction  a  topic  of  sarcasm  and  contempt. 

To  soften  my  grief,  my  father  consented  to  my  living 
under  the  care  of  her  whom  I  now  call  my  mother. 
Mrs.  Fielder  was  merely  the  intimate  from  childhood  of 
my  own  mother,  with  whom,  however,  since  her  marrage, 
contracted  against  Mrs.  Fielder's  inclination  and  remon- 
strances, she  had  maintained  but  little  intercourse.  My 
mother's  sudden  death  and  my  helpless  age  awakened  all 
her  early  tenderness,  and  induced  her  to  offer  an  asylum 
to  me.  Having  a  considerable  fortune  and  no  family, 
her  offer,  notwithstanding  ancient  jealousies,  was  readily 
accepted  by  my  father. 

My  new  residence  was,  in  many  respects,  the  reverse 
of  my  former  one.  The  treatment  I  received  from  my 
new  parent,  without  erasing  the  memory  of  the  old  one, 


8  JANE    TALBOT. 

quickly  excited  emotions  as  filial  and  tender  as  I  had  evei 
experienced.  Comfort  and  quiet,  peace  and  harmony, 
obsequious  and  affectionate  attendants  and  companions, 
I  had  never  been  accustomed  to  under  the  paternal  roof. 

From  this  period  till  I  -was  nearly  sixteen  years  of  age, 
I  merely  paid  occasional  visits  to  my  father.  He  loved 
me  with  as  much  "warmth  as  his  nature  was  capable  of 
feeling,  which  I  repaid  him  in  gratitude  and  reverence. 
I  never  remitted  my  attention  to  his  affairs,  and  studied 
his  security  and  comfort  as  far  as  these  were  within  my 
power. 

My  brother  was  not  deficient  in  talents,  but  he  wanted 
application.  Very  early  he  showed  strong  propensities 
to  active  amusement  and  sensual  pleasures.  The  school 
and  college  were  little  attended  to,  and  the  time  that  ought 
to  have  been  appropriated  to  books  and  study  was  wasted 
in  frolics  and  carousals.  As  soon  as  he  was  able  to  manage 
a  gun  and  a  horse,  they  were  procured;  and  these,  and 
the  company  to  which  they  introduced  him,  afforded 
employment  for  all  his  attention  and  time. 

My  father  had  devoted  his  early  years  to  the  inde- 
fatigable pursuit  of  gain.  He  was  frugal  and  abstemious, 
though  not  covetous,  and  amassed  a  large  property.  This 
property  he  intended  to  divide  between  his  two  children, 
and  to  secure  my  portion  to  his  nephew,  whom  his  parents 
had  left  an  orphan  in  his  infancy,  and  whom  my  father 
had  taken  and  treated  as  his  own  child  by  marrying  him 
to  me.  This  nephew  passed  his  childhood  among  us. 
His  temper  being  more  generous  than  my  brother's,  and 
being  taught  mutually  to  regard  each  other  as  destined 
to  a  future  union,  our  intercourse  was  cordial  and  affec- 
tionate. 

We  parted  at  an  age  at  which  nothing  like  passion  could 
be  felt.  He  went  to  Europe,  in  circumstances  very  fa- 
vourable to  his  improvement,  leaving  behind  him  the  ex- 
pectation of  his  returning  in  a  few  years.  Meanwhile, 
my  father  Avas  anxious  that  we  should  regard  each  other 
and  maintain  a  correspondence  as  persons  betrothed.  In 
persons  at  our  age,  this  scheme  was  chimerical.  As  soon 
as  I  acquired  the  power  of  reflection,  I  perceived  the 
folly  of  such  premature  bonds,  and,  though  I  did  not 


JANE    TALBOT. 

openly  oppose  my  father's  wishes,  held  myself  entirely 
free  to  obey  any  new  impulse  which  circumstances  might 
produce.  My  mother  (so  let  me  still  call  Mrs.  Fielder) 
fully  concurred  in  my  views. 

You  are  acquainted,  my  friend,  with  many  events  of 
my  early  life.  Most  of  those  not  connected  with  my 
father  and  his  nephew,  I  have  often  related.  At  present, 
therefore,  I  shall  omit  all  collateral  and  contemporary 
incidents,  and  confine  myself  entirely  to  those  connected 
with  these  two  persons. 

My  father,  on  the  death  of  his  wife,  retired  from  busi- 
ness, and  took  a  house  in  an  airy  and  secluded  situation. 
His  household  consisted  of  a  housekeeper  and  two  or  three 
servants,  and  apartments  were  always  open  for  his  son. 

My  brother's  temper  grew  more  unmanageable  as  he 
increased  in  years.  My  father's  views  with  regard  to 
him  were  such  as  parental  foresight  and  discretion  com- 
monly dictate.  He  wished  him  to  acquire  all  possible 
advantages  of  education,  and  then  to  betake  himself  to 
some  liberal  profession,  in  which  he  might  obtain  honour 
as  well  as  riches.  This  sober  scheme  by  no  means  suited 
the  restless  temper  of  the  youth.  It  was  his  maxim 
that  all  restraints  were  unworthy  of  a  lad  of  spirit,  and 
that  it  was  far  more  wise  to  spend  freely  what  his  father 
had  painfully  acquired,  than,  by  the  same  plodding  and 
toilsome  arts,  to  add  to  the  heap. 

I  scarcely  know  how  to  describe  my  feelings  in  relation 
to  this  young  man.  My  affection  for  him  was  certainly 
without  that  tenderness  which  a  good  brother  is  sure  to 
excite.  I  do  not  remember  a  single  direct  kindness  that 
I  ever  received  from  him ;  but  I  remember  innumerable 
ill  offices  and  contempts.  Still,  there  was  some  inexpli- 
cable charm  in  the  mere  tie  of  kindred,  which  made  me 
more  deplore  his  errors,  exult  in  his  talents,  rejoice  in  his 
success,  and  take  a  deeper  interest  in  his  concerns  than 
in  those  of  any  other  person. 

As  he  advanced  in  age,  I  had  new  cause  for  my  zeal 
in  his  behalf.  My  father's  temper  was  easy  and  flexible ; 
my  brother  was  at  once  vehement  and  artful.  Frank's 
arguments  and  upbraidings  created  in  his  father  an  un- 
natural awe,  an  apprehension  and  diffidence  in  thwart- 


10  JANE   TALBOT. 

ing  his  wishes  and  giving  advice,  which  usually  distin- 
guish the  filial  character.  The  youth  perceived  his  ad- 
A'antages,  and  employed  them  in  carrying  every  point  on 
•which  his  inclination  was  set. 

For  a  long  time  this  absurd  indulgence  was  shown  in 
allowing  his  son  to  employ  his  time  as  he  pleased,  in  re- 
fraining from  all  animadversions  on  his  idleness  and  dis- 
sipation, and  supplying  him  with  a  generous  allowance  of 
pocket-money.  This  allowance  required  now  and  then  to 
be  increased.  Every  year  and  every  month,  by  adding 
new  sources  of  expense,  added  something  to  the  stipend. 

My  father's  revenue  was  adequate  to  a  very  splendid 
establishment ;  but  he  was  accustomed  to  live  frugally, 
and  thought  it  wise  to  add  his  savings  to  the  principal  of 
his  estate.  These  savings  gradually  grew  less  and  less, 
till  at  length  my  brother's  numerous  excursions,  a  French 
girl  whom  he  maintained  in  expensive  lodgings,  his 
horses,  dogs,  and  friends,  consumed  the  whole  of  it. 

I  never  met  my  brother  but  by  accident.  These  in- 
terviews were,  for  the  most  part,  momentary,  either  in 
the  street  or  at  my  father's  house;  but  I  was  too  much 
interested  in  all  that  befell  him,  not  to  make  myself,  by 
various  means,  thoroughly  acquainted  with  his  situation. 

I  had  no  power  to  remedy  the  evil :  as  my  elder  bro- 
ther, and  as  a  man,  he  thought  himself  entitled  to  govern 
and  despise  me.  He  always  treated  me  as  a  frivolous 
girl,  with  whom  it  was  waste  of  time  to  converse,  and 
never  spoke  to  me  at  all  except  to  direct  or  admonish. 
Hence  I  could  do  nothing  but  regret  his  habits.  Their  con- 
sequences to  himself  it  was  beyond  my  power  to  prevent. 

For  a  long  time  I  was  totally  unaware  of  the  tenden- 
cies of  this  mode  of  life.  I  did  not  suspect  that  a  bro- 
ther's passions  would  carry  him  beyond  the  bound  of  vul- 
gar prudence,  or  induce  him  to  encroach  on  those  funds 
from  which  his  present  enjoyments  were  derived.  I  knew 
him  to  be  endowed  with  an  acute  understanding,  and 
imagined  that  this  would  point  out,  with  sufficient  clear- 
ness, the  wisdom  of  limiting  his  expenses  to  his  income. 

In  my  daily  conversations  with  my  father.  I  never 
voluntarily  introduced  Frank  as  our  topic,  unless  by  the 
harmless  and  trite  questions  of  "When  was  he  here?" 


JANE  TALBOT.  11 

"Where  has  he  gone?"  and  the  like.  We  met  only  by 
accident,  at  his  lodgings ;  when  I  entered  the  room  where 
he  was,  he  never  thought  of  bestowing  more  than  a 
transient  look  on  me,  just  to  know  who  it  was  that 
approached.  Circumstances  at  length,  however,  oc- 
curred, which  put  an  end  to  this  state  of  neutrality. 

I  heard,  twice  or  thrice  a  year,  from  my  cousin  Ris- 
berg.  One  day  a  letter  arrived  in  which  he  obscurely 
intimated  that  the  failure  of  remittances  from  my  father, 
for  more  than  half  a  year,  had  reduced  him  to  great  dis- 
tress. My  father  had  always  taught  him  to  regard  him- 
self as  entitled  to  all  the  privileges  of  a  son ;  had  sent 
him  to  Europe  undsr  express  conditions  of  supplying  him 
with  a  reasonable  stipend,  till  he  should  come  of  age,  at 
which  period  it  was  concerted  that  Risberg  should  return 
and  receive  a  portion  with  me,  enabling  him  to  enter  ad- 
vantageously on  the  profession  of  the  law,  to  which  he  was 
now  training.  This  stipend  was  far  from  being  extrava- 
gant, or  more  than  sufficient  for  the  decent  maintenance 
of  a  student  at  the  Temple ;  and  Risberg's  conduct  had 
always  been  represented,  by  those  under  whose  eye  he 
had  been  placed,  as  regular  and  exemplary. 

This  intimation  surprised  me  a  good  deal.  I  could 
easily  imagine  the  embarrassments  to  which  a  failure  of 
this  kind  must  subject  a  generous  spirit,  and  thought  it 
my  duty  to  remove  them  as  soon  as  possible.  I  supposed 
that  some  miscarriage  or  delay  had  happened  to  the 
money,  and  that  my  father  would  instantly  rectify  any 
error,  or  supply  any  deficiency.  I  hastened,  therefore, 
to  his  house,  with  the  opened  letter.  I  found  him  alone, 
and  immediately  showed  him  that  page  of  the  letter 
which  related  to  this  affair.  I  anxiously  watched  his 
looks  while  he  read  it. 

I  observed  marks  of  great  surprise  in  his  countenance, 
and,  as  soon  as  he  laid  down  the  letter,  I  began  to  expatiate 
on  the  inconveniences  which  Risberg  had  suffered.  He 
listened  to  me  in  gloomy  silence,  and.  when  I  had  done, 
made  no  answer  but  by  a  deep  sigh  and  downcast  look. 

"Pray,  dear  sir,"  continued  I,  "what  could  have  hap- 
pened to  the  money  which  you  sent  ?  You  had  not  heard, 
I  suppose,  of  its  miscarriage." 


12  JAXE    TALBOT. 

"No,  I  had  not  heard  of  it  before.  I  will  look  into  it, 
and  see  what  can  be  done."  Here  further  conversation 
was  suspended  by  a  visitant.  I  waited  with  impatience 
till  the  guest  had  retired ;  but  he  had  scarcely  left  the 
room  when  my  brother  entered.  I  supposed  my  father 
would  have  immediately  introduced  this  subject,  and,  as 
my  brother  usually  represented  him  in  every  aifair  of 
business,  and  could  of  course  throw  some  light  upon  the 
present  mystery,  I  saw  no  reason  why  I  should  be  ex- 
cluded from  a  conference  in  .which  I  had  some  interest, 
and  was  therefore  somewhat  surprised  when  my  father 
told  me  he  had  no  need  of  my  company  for  the  rest  of  the 
day,  and  wished  to  be  alone  with  Francis.  I  rose  in- 
stantly to  depart,  but  said,  "Pray,  sir,  tell  my  brother 
what  has  happened.  Perhaps  he  can  explain  the  mystery." 

"  What !"  cried  my  brother,  with  a  laugh,  "  has  thy  silly 
brain  engendered  a  mystery  which  I  am  to  solve  ?  Thou 
mayest  save  thyself  the -trouble  of  telling  me,  for,  really, 
I  have  no  time  to  throw  away  on  thee  or  thy  mysteries." 

There  was  always  something  in  my  brother's  raillery 
which  my  infirm  soul  could  never  support.  I  ought  al- 
ways to  have  listened  and  replied  without  emotion,  but  a 
fluttering  indignation  usually  deprived  ir.e  of  utterance. 
I  found  my  best  expedient  Avas  flight,  when  I  could  fly, 
and  silence  when  obliged  to  remain  :  I  therefore  made 
no  answer  to  this  speech,  but  hastily  withdrew. 

Next  morning,  earlier  than  usual,  I  went  to  my  father. 
He  was  thoughtful  and  melancholy.  I  introduced  the 
subject  that  was  nearest  my  heart;  but  he  answered  me 
reluctantly,  and  in  general  terms,  that  he  had  examined 
the  affair,  and  would  take  the  necessary  measures. 

"But,  dear  sir,"  said  I,  "how  did  it  happen?  How 
did  the  money  miscarry?" 

"Never  mind,"  said  he,  a  little  peevishly:  "we  shall 
see  things  put  to  rights,  I  tell  you;  and  let  that  satisfy 
you." 

"I  am  glad  of  it.  Poor  fellow!  Young,  generous, 
disdaining  obligation,  never  knowing  the  want  of  money, 
how  must  he  have  felt  on  being  left  quite  destitute,  pen- 
niless, running  in  arrcar  for  absolute  necessaries;  in 
debt  to  a  good  woman  who  lived  by  letting  lodgings,  and 


JAKE   TALBOT.  13 

who  dunned  him,  after  so  long  a  delay,  in  so  indirect 
and  delicate  a  manner  ! — What  must  he  have  suffered, 
accustomed  to  regard  you  as  a  father,  and  knowing  you 
had  no  personal  calls  for  your  large  revenue,  and  being 
so  solemnly  enjoined  by  you  not  to  stir  himself  in  any 
rational  pleasure !  for  you  would  be  always  ready  to 
exceed  your  stated  remittances,  when  there  should  be 
just  occasion.  Poor  fellow !  my  heart  bleeds  for  him. 
But  how  long  will  it  be  before  he  hears  from  you  ?  His 
letter  is  dated  seven  weeks  ago.  It  will  be  another  six 
or  eight  weeks  before  he  receives  an  answer, — at  least 
three  months  in  all;  and  during  all  this  time  he  will 
be  without  money.  But  perhaps  he  will  receive  it 
sooner." 

My  father  frequently  changed  countenance,  and  showed 
great  solicitude.  I  did  not  wonder  at  this,  as  Risberg 
had  always  been  loved  as  a  son.  A  little  consideration, 
therefore,  ought  to  have  shown  me  the  impropriety  of 
thus  descanting  on  an  evil  without  remedy;  yet  I  still 
persisted.  At  length,  I  asked  to  what  causes  I  might 
ascribe  his  former  disappointments,  in  the  letter  to  Ris- 
berg, which  I  proposed  writing  immediately. 

This  question  threw  him  into  much  confusion.  At 
last  he  said,  peevishly,  "I  wish,  Jane,  you  would  leave 
these  matters  to  me:  I  don't  like  your  interference." 

This  rebuke  astonished  me.  I  had  sufficient  discern- 
ment to  suspect  something  extraordinary,  but  was  for 
a  few  minutes  quite  puzzled  and  confounded.  He  had 
generally  treated  me  with  tenderness  and  even  deference, 
and  I  saw  nothing  peculiarly  petulant  or  improper  in 
what  I  had  said. 

"Dear  sir,  forgive  me:  you  know  I  write  to  my 
cousin,  and,  as  he  stated  his  complaints  to  me,  it  will  be 
natural  to  allude  to  them  in  my  answer  to  his  letter ;  but 
I  Avill  only  tell  him  that  all  difficulties  are  removed,  and 
refer  him  to  your  letter  for  further  satisfaction  j  for  you 
will  no  doubt  write  to  him." 

"I  wish  you  would  drop  the  subject.  If  you  write, 
you  may  tell  him — but  tell  him  what  you  please,  or  rather 
it  would  be  best  to  say  nothing  on  the  subject;  but  drop 
the  subject,  I  beseech  you." 


11  JANE    TALBOT. 

"  Certainly,  if  the  subject  displeases  you,  I  will  drop 
it."  Here  a  pause  of  mutual  embarrassment  succeeded, 
which  was,  at  length,  broken  by  my  father : — 

"I  will  speak  to  you  to-morrow,  Jane,  on  this  subject. 
I  grant  your  curiosity  is  natural,  and  will  then  gratify  it. 
To-morrow,  I  may  possibly  explain  why  Risberg  has  not 
received  what,  I  must  own,  he  had  a  right  to  expect. 
We'll  think  no  more  of  it  at  present,  but  play  a  game  at 
draughts." 

I  was  impatient,  you-  may  be  sure,  to  have  a  second 
meeting.  Next  day  my  father's  embarrassment  and  per- 
plexity was  very  evident.  It  was  plain  that  he  had  not 
forgotten  the  promised  explanation,  but  that  something 
made  it  a  very  irksome  task.  I  did  not  suffer  matters  to 
remain  long  in  suspense,  but  asked  him,  in  direct  terms, 
what  had  caused  the  failure  of  which  my  cousin  com- 
plained, and  whether  he  was  hereafter  to  receive  the 
stipulated  allowance  ? 

He  answered,  hesitatingly,  and  with  downcast  eyes, — 
why — he  did  not  know.  He  was  sorry.  It  had  not  been 
his  fault.  To  say  truth,  Francis  had  received  the  usual 
sums  to  purchase  the  bills.  Till  yesterday,  he  imagined 
they  had  actually  been  purchased  and  sent.  He  always 
understood  them  to  have  been  so  from  Francis.  He  had 
mentioned,  after  seeing  Risberg's  complaining  letter,  he 
had  mentioned  the  affair  to  Francis.  Francis  had  con- 
fessed that  he  had  never  sent  the  bills.  His  own  neces- 
sities compelled  him  to  apply  the  money  given  him  for  this 
purpose  to  his  own  use.  To-be-sure,  Risberg  was  his 
nephew, — had  always  depended  on  him  for  his  mainte- 
nance ;  but  somehow  or  another  the  wants  of  Francis 
had  increased  very  much  of  late  years,  and  swallowed 
up  all  that  he  could  rap  and  rend  without  encroaching 
on  his  principal.  Risberg  Avas  but  his  nephew ;  Frank  was 
his  own  and  only  son.  To-be-sure,  he  once  thought  that 
he  had  enough  for  his  three  children  ;  but  times,  it  seems, 
were  altered.  He  did  not  spend  on  his  own  wants  more 
than  he  used  to  do;  but  Frank's  expenses  were  very 
great,  and  swallowed  up  every  thing.  To-be-sure,  he 
pitied  the  young  man,  but  he  was  enterprising  and  indus- 
trious, and  could,  no  doubt,  shift  for  himself;  yet  he 


JANE    TALBOT.  15 

would  be  quite  willing  to  assist  him,  were  it  in  his  power ; 
but  really  it  was  no  longer  in  his  power. 

I  was,  for  a  time,  at  a  loss  for  words  to  express  my 
surprise  and  indignation  at  my  brother's  unfeeling  self- 
ishness. I  could  no  longer  maintain  my  usual  silence 
on  his  conduct,  but  inveighed  against  it,  as  soon  as  I 
could  find  breath,  with  the  utmost  acrimony. 

My  father  was  embarrassed,  confounded,  grieved.  He 
sighed,  and  even  wept. — "  Francis,"  said  he,  at  last,  "  to- 
be-sure,  has  not  acted  quite  right.  But  what  can  be 
done  ?  Is  he  not  my  child  ?  and,  if  he  has  faults,  is  he 
altogether  without  virtue  ?  No ;  if  he  did  not  find  a 
lenient  and  forgiving  judge  in  me,  his  father,  in  whom 
could  he  look  for  one  ?  Besides,  the  thing  is  done,  and 
therefore  without  remedy.  This  year's  income  is  nearly 
exhausted,  and  I  really  fear,  before  another  quarter  comes 
round,  I  shall  want  myself." 

I  again  described,  in  as  strong  and  affecting  terms  as  I 
could,  Risberg's  expectations  and  disappointment,  and  in- 
sinuated to  him,  that,  in  a  case  like  this,  there  could  be  no 
impropriety  in  selling  a  few  shares  of  his  bank-stock. 

This  hint  was  extremely  displeasing,  but  I  urged  him 
so  vehemently  that  he  said,  "  Francis  will  perhaps  consent 
to  it:  I  will  try  him  this  evening." 

"Alas!"  said  I,  "my  brother  will  never  consent  to 
such  a  measure.  If  he  has  found  occasion  for  the  money 
you  had  designed  for  my  poor  cousin,  and  of  all  your  cur- 
rent income,  his  necessities  will  not  fail  to  lay  hold  of 
this." 

"Very  true;"  (glad,  it  seemed,  of  an  excuse  for  not 
thwarting  his  son's  will;)  "Frank  will  never  consent. 
So,  you  see,  it  will  be  impossible  to  do  any  thing." 

I  was  going  to  propose  that  he  should  execute  this 
business  without  my  brother's  knowledge,  but  instantly 
perceived  the  impossibility  of  that.  My  father  had  for 
some  years  devolved  on  his  son  the  management  of  all  his 
affairs,  and  habit  had  made  him  no  longer  qualified  to  act 
for  himself.  Frank's  opinion  of  what  was  proper  to  be 
done  was  infallible,  and  absolute  in  all  cases. 

I  returned  home  with  a  very  sad  heart.  I  was  deeply 
afflicted  with  this  new  instance  of  my  brother's  selfishness 


16  JANE    TALBOT. 

and  of  my  father's  infatuation.  "Poor  Risberg!"  said 
I ;  "  what  will  become  of  thee  ?  I  love  thee  as  my  brother. 
I  feel  for  thy  distresses.  Would  to  Heaven  I  could  re- 
move them !  And  cannot  I  remove  them  ?  As  to  con- 
tending with  my  brother's  haughtiness  in  thy  favour,  that 
is  a  hopeless  task.  As  to  my  father,  he  will  never  sub- 
mit to  my  guidance." 

After  much  fruitless  meditation,  it  occurred  to  me 
that  I  might  supply  Risberg's  wants  from  my  own  purse. 
My  mother's  indulgence  to  me  was  without  bounds.  She 
openly  considered  and  represented  me  as  the  heiress  of 
her  fortunes,  and  confided  fully  in  my  discretion.  The 
chief  uses  I  had  hitherto  found  for  money  were  charitable 
ones.  I  was  her  almoner.  To  stand  in  the  place  of  my 
father  Avith  respect  to  Risberg,  and  supply  his  customary 
stipend  from  my  own  purse,  was  an  adventurous  under- 
taking for  a  young  creature  like  me.  It  was  impossible 
to  do  this  clandestinely ;  at  least,  Avithout  the  knowledge 
and  consent  of  Mrs.  Fielder.  I  therefore  resolved  to  de- 
clare Avhat  had  happened,  and  request  her  counsel.  An 
opportunity  suitable  to  this  did  not  immediately  offer. 

Next  morning,  as  I  was  sitting  alone  in  the  parlour,  at 
work,  my  brother  came  in.  NeArer  before  had  I  received 
a  visit  from  him.  My  sui-prise,  therefore,  Avas  not  small. 
I  started  up  with  the  confusion  of  a  stranger,  and  re- 
quested him,  very  formally,  to  be  seated. 

I  instantly  saw  in  his  looks  marks  of  displeasure,  and, 
though  unconscious  of  meriting  it,  my  trepidation  in- 
creased. He  took  a  seat  without  speaking,  and  after 
some  pause  addressed  me  thus : — 

"  So,  girl,  I  hear  that  you  have  been  meddling  with 
things  that  do  not  concern  you, — soAving  dissension  be- 
tween the  old  man  and  me  ;  presuming  to  dictate  to  us  IIOAV 
AVC  are  to  manage  our  OATO  property.  He  retailed  to  me, 
last  night,  a  parcel  of  impertinence  Avith  which  you  had 
been  teasing  him,  about  this  traveller  Risberg,  assuming, 
long  before  your  time,  the  province  of  his  care-taker. 
Why,  do  you  think,"  continued  he,  contemptuously,  "he'll 
ever  return  to  marry  you  ?  Take  my  Avord  for't,  he's 
no  such  fool.  I  Tcnoiv  that  he  never  Avill." 

The  infirmity  of  my  temper  has  been  a  subject  of  eter- 


JANE    TALBOT.  17 

nal  regret  to  me  ;  yet  it  never  displayed  itself  with  much 
force,  except  under  the  lash  of  my  brother's  sarcasms. 
My  indignation  on  those  occasions  had  a  strange  mixture 
of  fear  in  it,  and  both  together  suffocated  my  speech.  I 
made  no  answer  to  this  boisterous  arrogance. 

"But  come,"  continued  he,  "pray,  let  us  hear  your 
very  wise  objections  to  a  man's  applying  his  own  property 
to  his  own  use.  To  rob  himself  and  spend  the  spoil  upon 
another  is  thy  sage  maxim,  it  seems,  for  which  thou  de- 
servest  to  be  dubbed  a  she  Solomon.  But  let's  see  if 
thou  art  as  cunning  in  defending  as  in  coining  maxims. 
Come  ;  there  is  a  chair :  lay  it  on  the  floor,  and  suppose 
it  a  bar  or  rostrum,  which  thou  wilt,  and  stand  behind 
it,  and  plead  the  cause  of  foolish  prodigality  against  com- 
mon sense." 

I  endeavoured  to  muster  up  a  little  spirit,  and  replied, 
"I  could  not  plead  before  a  more  favourable  judge.  An 
appeal  to  my  brother  on  behalf  of  foolish  prodigality 
could  hardly  fail  of  success.  Poor  common  sense  must 
look  for  justice  at  some  other  tribunal." 

His  eyes  darted  fire.  "  Come,  girl ;  none  of  your  in- 
solence. I  did  not  come  here  to  be  insulted." 

"No;  you  rather  came  to  commit  than  to  receive  an 
insult." 

"  Paltry  distinguisher  !  to  jest  with  you,  and  not  chide 
you  for  your  folly,  is  to  insult  you,  is  it  ?  Leave  off  ro- 
mance, and  stick  to  common  sense,  and  you  will  never 
receive  any  thing  but  kindness  from  me.  But  come ;  if 
I  must  humour  you,  let  me  hear  how  you  have  found  your- 
self out  to  be  wiser  than  your  father  and  brother." 

"  I  do  not  imagine,  brother,  that  any  good  will  result 
from  our  discussing  this  subject.  Education,  or  sex,  if 
you  please,  has  made  a  difference  in  our  judgments, 
which  argument  will  never  reconcile." 

"  With  all  my  heart.  A  truce  everlasting  let  there  be ; 
but,  in  truth,  I  merely  came  to  caution  you  against  inter- 
meddling in  my  affairs,  to  tell  you  to  beware  of  sowing 
jealousy  and  ill-will  between  the  old  man  and  me.  Prate 
away  on  other  subjects  as  much  as  you  please ;  but  on 
this  affair  of  Risberg's  hold  your  tongue  for  the  future." 

"  I  thank  you  for  your  brotherly  advice,  but  I  am 
2* 


18  JANE   TALBOT. 

afraid  I  never  shall  bring  myself  to  part  with  the  liberty 
of  prating  on  every  subject  that  pleases  me ;  at  least,  my 
forbearance  will  flow  from  my  own  discretion,  and  not 
from  the  imperious  prohibition  of  another." 

He  laughed.  "  Well  said,  oddity.  I  am  not  displeased 
to  see  you  act  with  some  spirit:  but  I  repeat  my  charge; 
be  quiet.  Your  interference  will  do  no  good." 

"  Indeed,  I  firmly  believe  that  it  will  not ;  and  that  will 
be  a  motive  for  my  silence  that  shall  always  have  its  due 
weight  with  me.  Eisberg,  I  see,  must  look  elsewhere  for 
a  father  and  a  brother." 

"  Poor  thing  !  do ;  put  its  finger  in  its  eye  and  weep. 
Ha !  ha  !  ha !  poor  Risberg !  how  would  he  laugh  to  see 
these  compassionate  tears !  It  seem  she  has  written  in  a 
very  doleful  strain  to  thee, — talked  very  pathetically  about 
his  debts  to  his  laundress  and  his  landlady.  I  have  a 
good  mind  to  leave  thee  in  this  amiable  ignorance ;  but 
I'll  prove  for  once  a  kind  brother,  by  telling  you  that 
Risberg  is  a  profligate  and  prodigal;  that  he  neglects 
every  study  but  that  of  dice  ;  that  this  is  the  true  reason 
why  I  have  stood  in  the  way  of  the  old  man's  bounty  to 
him.  I  have  unquestionable  proof  of  his  worthlessness, 
and  see  no  reason  to  throw  away  money  upon  London  pros- 
titutes and  gamblers.  I  never  mentioned  this  to  the  old 
man,  because  I  would  not  needlessly  distress  him,  for  I 
know  he  loves  Jack  at  least  as  well  as  his  own  children. 
I  tell  it  you  to  justify  my  conduct,  and  hope  that  I  may 
for  once  trust  to  your  good  sense  not  to  disclose  it  to 
your  father." 

My  heart  could  not  restrain  its  indignation  at  these 
words. 

" 'Tis  false!"  I  exclaimed;  "'tis  a  horrid  calumny 
against  one  who  cannot  defend  himself!  I  will  never  be- 
lieve the  depravity  of  my  absent  brother,  till  I  have  as 
good  proof  of  it  as  my  present  brother  has  given  me  of 
his." 

"Bravo,  my  girl !  who  could  have  thought  you  could 
give  the  lie  with  such  a  grace  ?  Why  don't  you  spit  in 
the  face  of  the  vile  calumniator?  But  I  am  not  angry 
with  you,  Jane ;  I  only  pity  you ;  yet  I'll  not  leave  you 
before  I  tell  you  my  mind.  I  have  no  doubt  llisberg 


JANE    TALBOT.  19 

means  to  retimi.  He  knows  on  what  footing  you  are  with 
Mrs.  Fielder,  and  will  take  care  to  return ;  but,  mind  me, 
Jane,  you  shall  never  throw  yourself  and  your  fortune 
away  upon  Risberg,  while  I  have  a  voice  or  an  arm  to 
prevent  it.  And  now — good-by  to  you." 

So  ended  this  conversation.  He  left  me  in  a  hurry  and 
confusion  of  spirits  not  to  be  described.  For  a  time  I 
felt  nothing  but  indignation  and  abhorrence  for  what  I 
thought  a  wicked  and  cruel  calumny ;  but  in  proportion 
as  I  regained  my  tranquillity,  my  reflections  changed. 
Did  not  my  brother  speak  truth  ?  Was  there  not  some- 
thing in  his  manner  very  different  from  that  of  an  im- 
postor ?  How  unmoved  was  he  by  the  doubts  which  I 
ventured  to  insinuate  of  his  truth!  Alas!  I  fear  'tis  too 
true. 

I  told  you  before  that  we  parted  at  an  age  when  love 
could  not  be  supposed  to  exist  between  us.  If  I  know  my- 
self, I  felt  no  more  for  him  than  for  a  mere  brother ;  but 
then  I  felt  all  the  solicitude  and  tenderness  of  a  sister.  I 
knew  not  scarcely  how  to  act  in  my  present  situation ;  but 
at  length  determined  to  disclose  the  whole  affair  to  my 
mother.  With  her  approbation  I  enclosed  an  order  on  a 
London  merchant  in  a  letter  to  this  effect : — 

"I  read  your  letter,  my  friend,  with  the  sentiments  of 
one  who  is  anxious  for  your  happiness.  The  difficulties 
you  describe  will,  I  am  afraid,  be  hereafter  prevented 
only  by  your  own  industry.  My  father's  and  brother's 
expenses  consume  the  whole  of  that  income  in  Avhich  you 
have  hitherto  had  a  share,  and  I  am  obliged  to  apprize 
you  that  the  usual  remittances  will  no  longer  be  made. 
You  are  now  advancing  to  manhood,  and,  I  hope,  will  soon 
be  able  to  subsist  upon  the  fruits  of  your  own  learning  and 
industry. 

"I  have  something  more  to  say  to  you,  which  I  scarcely 
know  how  to  communicate.  Somebody  here  has  loaded 
your  character  with  very  heavy  imputations.  You  are  said 
to  be  addicted  to  gaming,  sensuality,  and  the  lowest  vices. 
How  much  grief  this  intelligence  has  given  to  all  who  love 
you,  you  will  easily  imagine.  To  find  you  innocent  of 
these  charges  would  free  my  heart  from  the  keenest  so- 
licitude it  has  hitherto  felt.  I  leave  to  you  the  proper 


20  JANE    TAL150T. 

means  of  doing  this,  if  you  can  do  it  without  violation  of 
truth. 

"I  am  very  imperfectly  acquainted  with  your  present 
views.  You  originally  designed,  after  having  completed 
your  academical  and  legal  education,  to  return  to  America. 
If  this  should  still  be  your  intention,  the  enclosed  will 
obviate  some  of  your  pecuniary  embarrassments,  and  my 
mother  enjoins  me  to  tell  you  that,  as  you  may  need  a 
few  months  longer  to  make  the  necessary  preparations 
for  returning,  you  may  draw  on  her  for  an  additional  sum 
of  five  hundred  dollars.  Adieu." 

My  relation  to  Risberg  was  peculiarly  delicate.  His 
more  lively  imagination  had  deceived  him  already  into  a 
belief  that  he  was  in  love.  At  least,  in  all  his  letters,  he 
seemed  fond  of  recognising  that  engagement  which  my 
father  had  established  between  us,  and  exaggerated  the 
importance,  to  his  happiness,  of  my  regard.  Experience 
had  already  taught  me  to  set  their  just  value  on  such  pro- 
fessions. I  knew  that  men  are  sanguine  and  confident, 
and  that  the  imaginary  gracefulness  of  passion  naturally 
prompts  them  to  make  their  words  outstrip  their  feelings. 
Though  eager  in  their  present  course,  it  is  easy  to  divert 
them  from  it ;  and  most  men  of  an  ardent  temper  can  be 
dying  of  love  for  half  a  dozen  different  women  in  the 
course  of  a  year. 

Women  feel  deeply,  but  boast  not.  The  supposed  in- 
decency of  forwardness  makes  their  words  generally  fall 
short  of  their  sentiments,  and  passion,  when  once  tho- 
roughly imbibed,  is  as  hard  to  be  escaped  from  as  it  was 
difficultly  acquired.  I  felt  no  passion,  and  endeavoured 
not  to  feel  any,  for  Risberg,  till  circumstances  should  make 
it  proper  and  discreet.  My  attachment  was  to  his  interest, 
his  happiness,  and  not  to  his  person,  and  to  convince  him 
of  this  was  extremely  difficult.  To  persuade  him  that  his 
freedom  was  absolute  and  entire,  that  no  tie  of  honour  or 
compassion  bound  him  to  me,  but  that,  on  the  contrary, 
to  dispose  of  his  affections  elsewhere  would  probably  be 
most  conducive  to  the  interests  of  both. 

These  cautious  proceedings  were  extremely  nnpleasing 
to  my  cousin,  who  pretended  to  be  deeply  mortified  at  any 
thing  betokening  indifference,  and  terribly  alarmed  at  the 


JANE   TALBOT.  21 

possibility  of  losing  me.  On  the  whole,  I  confess  to  you, 
that  I  thought  my  cousin  and  I  were  destined  for  each 
other,  and  felt  myself,  if  I  may  so  speak,  not  in  love 
with  him,  but  prepared,  at  the  bidding  of  discretion,  to 
love  him. 

My  brother's  report,  therefore,  greatly  distressed  me. 
Should  my  cousin  prove  a  reprobate,  no  power  on  earth 
should  compel  me  to  be  his.  If  his  character  should  prove 
blameless,  and  my  heart  raise  no  obstacles,  at  a  proper 
time  I  should  act  with  absolute  independence  of  my  bro- 
ther's inclinations.  The  menace  that  while  he  had  voice 
or  arm  he  would  hinder  my  choice  of  Risberg  made  the 
less  impression  as  it  related  to  an  event  necessarily  distant, 
and  which  probably  might  never  happen. 

The  next  letter  from  Risberg  put  an  end  to  all  further 
intercourse  between  us.  It  informed  us  of  his  being  on 
the  eve  of  marriage  into  an  opulent  family.  It  expressed 
much  indignation  at  the  calumny  which  had  prevailed 
with  my  father  to  withdraw  his  protection ;  declared  that 
he  deemed  himself  by  no  means  equitably  or  respectfully 
treated  by  him ;  expressed  gratitude  to  my  mother  for 
the  supply  she  had  remitted,  which  had  arrived  very  sea- 
sonably and  prevented  him  from  stooping  to  humiliations 
which  might  have  injured  his  present  happy  prospects ; 
and  promised  to  repay  the  sum  as  soon  as  possible.  This 
promise  was  punctually  performed,  and  Risberg  assured 
me  that  he  was  as  happy  as  a  lovely  and  rich  wife  could 
make  him. 

I  was  satisfied  with  this  result,  and  bestowed  no  further 
thought  on  that  subject.  From  morn  to  midnight  have  I 
written,  and  have  got  but  little  way  in  my  story.  Adieu. 


LETTER  IV. 

To  Henry  Golden. 

Wednesday  Morning,  October  5. 

I  CONTINUED  my  visits  to  my  father  as  usual.  Affairs 
proceeded  nearly  in  their  old  channel.  Frank  and  I  never 
met  but  by  accident,  and  our  interviews  began  and  ended 


22  JANE    TALBOT. 

merely  with  a  good-inorrow.  I  never  mentioned  Risberg's 
name  to  my  father,  and  observed  that  he  as  studiously 
avoided  lighting  on  the  same  topic. 

One  day  a  friend  chanced  to  mention  the  greatness  of 
my  fortune,  and  congratulated  me  on  my  title  to  two  such 
large  patrimonies  as  those  of  Mrs.  Fielder  and  my  father. 
I  was  far  from  viewing  my  condition  in  the  same  light 
with  my  friend.  My  mother's  fortune  was  indeed  large 
and  permanent,  but  my  claim  to  it  was  merely  through 
her  voluntary  favour,  of  which  a  thousand  accidents  might 
bereave  me.  As  to  my  father's  property,  Frank  had 
taken  care  very  early  to  suggest  to  him  that  I  was  amply 
provided  for  in  Mrs.  Fielder's  good  graces,  and  that  it  was 
equitable  to  bequeath  the  whole  inheritance  to  him.  This 
disposition,  indeed,  was  not  made  without  my  knowledge; 
but  though  I  was  sensible  that  I  held  of  my  maternal  friend 
but  a  very  precarious  tenure,  that  my  character  and  edu- 
cation were  likely  to  secure  a  much  wiser  and  more  useful 
application  of  money  than  my  brother's  habits,  it  was 
impossible  for  me  openly  to  object  to  this  arrangement ; 
so  that,  as  things  stood,  though  the  world,  in  estimating 
my  merits,  never  forgot  that  my  father  was  rich,  and  that 
Frank  and  I  were  his  only  children,  I  had  in  reality  no 
prospect  of  inheriting  a  farthing  from  him. 

Indeed,  I  always  entertained  a  presentiment  that  I  should 
one  day  be  poor,  and  have  to  rely  for  subsistence  on  my 
own  labour.  With  this  persuasion,  I  frequently  busied  my 
thoughts  in  imagining  the  most  lucrative  and  decent  means 
of  employing  my  ingenuity,  and  directed  my  inquiries  to 
many  things  of  little  or  no  use  but  on  the  irksome  sup- 
position that  I  should  one  day  live  by  my  own  labour. 
But  this  is  a  digression. 

In  answer  to  my  friend's  remarks,  I  observed  that  my 
father's  property  was  much  less  considerable  than  some 
people  imagined ;  that  time  made  no  accession  to  it ;  and 
that  my  brother's  well-known  habits  were  likely  to  reduce 
it  much  below  its  present  standard,  long  before  it  would 
come  to  a  division. 

"  There,  Jane,  you  are  mistaken,"  said  my  friend,  "  or 
rather  you  are  willing  to  mislead  me ;  for  you  must  know 
that,  though  your  father  appears  to  be  idle,  yet  your 


JANE    TALBOT.  23 

brother  is  speculating  Avith  his  money  at  an  enormous 
rate." 

"And  pray,"  said  I,  (for  I  did  not  wish  to  betray  all 
the  surprise  that  this  intelligence  gave  me,)  "in  what 
speculations  is  he  engaged?" 

"How  should  I  tell  you,  who  scarcely  know  the  mean- 
ing of  the  word  ?  I  only  heard  my  father  say  that  young 
Talbot,  though  seemingly  swallowed  up  in  pleasure,  kneAV 
how  to  turn  a  penny  as  well  as  another,  and  was  employ- 
ing his  father's  wealth  in  speculation;  that,  I  remember, 
was  his  word,  but  I  never,  for  my  part,  took  the  trouble 
to  inquire  what  speculation  meant.  I  know  only  that  it  is 
some  hazardous  or  complicated  way  of  getting  money." 

These  hints,  though  the  conversation  passed  imme- 
diately to  other  subjects,  made  a  deep  impression  on  my 
mind.  My  brother's  character  I  knew  to  be  incompati- 
ble with  any  sort  of  industry,  and  had  various  reasons 
for  believing  my  father's  property  to  be  locked  up  in 
bank-stock.  If  my  friend's  story  Avere  true,  there  was  a 
neAV  instance  of  the  influence  which  Frank  had  acquired 
over  his  father.  I  had  ATery  indistinct  ideas  of  specula- 
tion, but  Avas  used  to  regard  it  as  something  very  hazard- 
ous, and  almost  criminal. 

I  told  my  mother  all  my  uneasiness.  She  thought  it 
Avorth  while  to  take  some  means  of  getting  at  the  truth, 
in  conversation  Avith  my  father.  Agreeably  to  her  advice, 
on  my  next  visit  I  opened  the  subject,  by  repeating  exactly 
Avhat  I  heard.  I  concluded  by  asking  if  it  were  true. 

"  Why,  yes,"  said  he ;  "  it  is  partly  true,  I  must  confess. 
Some  time  ago  Frank  laid  his  projects  before  me,  and 
they  appeared  so  promising  and  certain  of  success,  that 
I  ventured  to  give  him  possession  of  a  large  sum." 

"And  Avhat  scheme,  sir,  Avas  it,  if  I  may  venture  to  ask?" 

"  Why,  child,  these  are  subjects  so  much  out  of  thy  Avay, 
that  thou  Avouldst  hardly  comprehend  any  explanation 
that  I  could  give." 

"Perhaps  so;  but  Avhat  success,  dear  sir,  have  you 
met  Avith?" 

"  Why,  I  can't  but  say  that  affairs  have  not  been  quite 
as  expeditious  in  their  progress  as  I  had  reason,  at  first, 
to  expect.  Unlooked-for  delays  and  impediments  Avill 


24  JANE   TALBOT. 

occur  in  the  prosecution  of  the  best  schemes ;  and  these, 
I  must  own,  have  been  well  enough  accounted  for." 

"But,  dear  sir,  the  scheme,  I  doubt  not,  was  very 
beneficial  that  induced  you  to  hazard  your  whole  fortune. 
I  thought  you  had  absolutely  withdrawn  yourself  from 
all  the  hazards  and  solicitudes  of  business." 

"  Why,  indeed,  I  had  so,  and  should  never  have  engaged 
again  in  them  of  my  own  accord.  Indeed,  I  trouble  not 
myself  with  any  details  at  present.  I  am  just  as  much  at 
my  ease  as  I  used  to  be.  I  leave  every  thing  to  Frank." 

"But,  sir,  the  hazard,  the  uncertainty,  of  all  projects! 
Would  you  expose  yourself  at  this  time  of  life  to  the 
possibility  of  being  reduced  to  distress  ?  And  had  you 
not  enough  already?" 

"Why,  what  you  say,  Jane,  is  very  true:  these  things 
did  occur  to  me,  and  they  strongly  disinclined  me,  at  first, 
from  your  brother's  proposals;  but,  I  don't  know  how  it 
was,  he  made  out  the  thing  to  be  so  very  advantageous; 
the  success  of  it  so  infallible ;  and  his  own  wants  were  so 
numerous  that  my  whole  income  was  insufficient  to  supply 
them ;  the  Lord  knows  how  it  has  happened.  In  my  time, 
I  could  live  upon  a  little.  Even  with  a  wife  and  family,  my 
needs  did  not  require  a  fourth  of  the  sum  that  Frank,  with- 
out wife  or  child,  contrives  to  spend ;  yet  I  can't  object 
neither.  He  makes  it  out  that  he  spends  no  more  than 
his  rank  in  life,  as  he  calls  it,  indispensably  requires. 
Rather  than  encroach  upon  my  funds,  and  the  prospects 
of  success  being  so  very  flattering,  and  Frank  so  very 
urgent  and  so  very  sanguine,  whose  own  interest  it  is  to 
be  sure  of  his  footing,  I  even,  at  last,  consented." 

"But  I  hope,  dear  sir,  your  prudence  provided  in  some 
degree  against  the  possibility  of  failure.  No  doubt  you 
reserved  something  which  might  serve  as  a  stay  to  your  old 
age  in  case  this  hopeful  project  miscarried.  Absolutely 
to  hazard  all  on  the  faith  of  any  project  whatever  was 
unworthy  of  one  of  your  experience  and  discretion." 

My  father,  Henry,  was  a  good  man, — humane,  affec- 
tionate, kind,  and  of  strict  integrity ;  but  I  scarcely  need 
to  add,  after  what  I  have  already  related,  that  his  under- 
standing was  far  from  being  vigorous,  or  his  temper  firm. 
His  foibles,  indeed,  acquired  strength  as  he  advanced 


JANE    TALBOT.  25 

in  years,  while  his  kindness  and  benevolence  remained 
undiminished. 

His  acquiescence  in  my  brother's  schemes  can  hardly 
be  ranked  with  follies :  you,  who  know  what  scheme  it 
was,  who  know  the  intoxicating  influence  of  a  specious 
project,  and,  especially,  the  wonderful  address  and  plau- 
sibility of  Catling,  the  adventurer  who  was  my  brother's 
prime  minister  and  chief  agent  in  that  ruinous  transac- 
tion, will  not  consider  their  adopting  the  phantom  as  any 
proof  of  the  folly  of  either  father  or  son.  But  let  me 
return.  To  my  compliment  to  his  experience  and  dis- 
cretion, my  father  replied,  "Why,  truly,  I  hardly  know 
how  it  may  turn  out  in  the  long  run.  At  first,  indeed,  I 
only  consented  to  come  down  with  a  few  thousands,  the 
total  loss  of  which  would  not  break  my  heart ;  but  this, 
it  seems,  though  it  was  all  they  at  first  demanded,  did 
not  prove  quite  sufficient.  Some  debts  they  were  obliged 
to  contract, — to  no  great  amount,  indeed, — and  these 
must  be  paid  or  the  scheme  relinquished.  Having  gone 
so  far  into  the  scheme,  it  was  absurd  to  let  a  trifle  stop 
me.  I  must  own,  had  I  foreseen  all  the  demands  that 
have  been  made  from  time  to  time,  I  should  never  have 
engaged  in  it;  but  I  have  been  led  on  from  one  step  to 
another,  till  I  fear  it  would  avail  me  nothing  to  hesitate 
or  hold  back ;  and  Frank's  representations  are  so  very 
plausible  !" 

*'  Does  your  whole  subsistence,  then,  my  dear  sir,  de- 
pend on  the  success  of  this  scheme  ?  Suppose  it  should 
utterly  fail:  what  will  be  the  consequences  to  yourself?" 

"  Fail !  That  is  impossible.  It  cannot  fail  but 
through  want  of  money,  and  I  am  solemnly  assured  that 
no  more  will  be  necessary." 

"But  how  often,  sir,  has  this  assurance  been  given? 
No  doubt  with  as  much  solemnity  the  first  time  as  the 
last." 

My  father  began  to  grow  impatient : — "  It  is  useless, 
Jane,  to  start  difficulties  and  objections  now,  It  is  too 
late  to  go  back,  even  if  I  were  disinclined  to  go  forward ; 
and  I  have  no  doubt  of  ultimate  success.  Be  a  good 
girl,  and  you  shall  come  in  for  a.  share  of  the  profit. 
Mrs.  Fielder  and  I,  between  us,  will  make  you  the  richest 
3 


20  JANE   TALBOT. 

heiress  in  America.  Let  that  consideration  reconcile 
you  to  the  scheme." 

I  could  not  but  smile  at  this  argument.  I  well  knew 
that  my  brother's  rapacity  was  not  to  be  satisfied  with 
millions.  To  sit  down  and  say,  "I  have  enough,"  was 
utterly  incompatible  with  his  character.  I  dropped  the 
conversation  for  the  present. 

My  thoughts  were  full  of  uneasiness.  The  mere  sound 
of  the  word  "project"  alarmed  me.  I  had  little  desire 
of  knowing  the  exact  nature  of  the  scheme,  being  nowise 
qualified  to  judge  of  its  practicability;  but  a  scheme  in 
which  my  brother  was  the  agent,  in  which  my  father's 
whole  property  was  hazarded,  and  which  appeared,  from 
the  account  I  had  just  heard,  at  least  not  to  have  ful- 
filled the  first  expectations,  could  not  be  regarded  with 
tranquillity. 

I  took  occasion  to  renew  the  subject  with  my  father, 
some  time  after  this.  I  could  only  deal  in  general  ob- 
servations on  the  imprudence  of  putting  independence 
and  subsistence  to  hazard :  though  the  past  was  not  to 
be  recalled,  yet  the  future  was  his  own,  and  it  would  not 
be  unworthy  of  him  to  act  with  caution.  I  was  obliged  to 
mingle  this  advice  with  much  foreign  matter,  and  convey  it 
in  the  most  indirect  and  gentle  terms.  His  pride  was  easily 
offended  at  being  thought  to  want  the  counsel  of  a  girl. 

He  replied  to  my  remarks  with  confidence,  that  no 
further  demand  would  be  made  upon  him.  The  last  sum 
was  given  with  extreme  reluctance,  and  nothing  but  the 
positive  assurance  that  it  would  absolutely  be  the  last 
had  prevailed  with  him. 

"  Suppose,  sir,"  said  I,  "what  you  have  already  given 
should  prove  insufficient.  Suppose  some  new  demand 
should  be  made  upon  you." 

"I  cannot  suppose  that,  after  so  many  solemn  and 
positive  assurances." 

"But  were  not  assurances  as  positive  and  solemn  on 
every  former  occasion  as  the  last?" 

"Why,  yes,  I  must  own  they  were;  but  new  circum- 
stances arose  that  could  not  be  foreseen?" 

"And,  dear  sir,  may  not  new  circumstances  arise 
hereafter  that  could  not  be  foreseen  ?" 


JANE   TALBOT.  27 

"Nay,  nay,"  (with  some  impatience;)  "I  tell  you 
there  cannot  be  any." 

I  said  no  more  on  this  subject  at  this  time ;  but  my 
father,  notwithstanding  the  confidence  he  expressed,  was 
far  from  being  at  ease. 

One  day  I  found  him  in  great  perturbation.  I  met 
my  brother,  who  was  going  out  as  I  entered,  and  sus- 
pected the  cause  of  his  disquiet.  He  spoke  less  than 
usual,  and  sighed  deeply.  I  endeavoured,  by  various 
means,  to  prevail  on  him  to  communicate  his  thoughts, 
and  at  last  succeeded.  My  brother,  it  seems,  had  made 
a  new  demand  upon  his  purse,  and  he  had  been  brought 
reluctantly  to  consent  to  raise  the  necessary  sum  by  a 
mortgage  on  his  house,  the  only  real  property  he  pos- 
sessed. My  brother  had  gone  to  procure  a  lender  and 
prepare  the  deeds. 

I  was  less  surprised  at  this  intelligence  than  grieved. 
I  thought  I  saw  my  father's  ruin  was  inevitable,  and 
knew  not  how  to  prevent  or  procrastinate  it.  After  a 
long  pause,  I  ventured  to  insinuate  that,  as  the  thing  was 
yet  to  be  done,  as  there  was  still  time  for  deliberation 

"No,  no,"  interrupted  he;  "I  must  go  on.  It  is  too 
late  to  repent.  Unless  new  funds  are  supplied,  all  that 
we  have  hitherto  done  will  go  for  nothing ;  and  Frank 
assures  me  that  one  more  sacrifice  and  all  will  be  well." 

"Alas,  sir,  are  you  still  deceived  by  that  language  ? 
Can  you  still  listen  to  assurances  which  experience  has  so 
often  shown  to  be  fallacious  ?  1  know  nothing  of  this  fine 
project ;  but  I  can  see  too  clearly  that  unless  you  hold  your 
hand  you  will  be  undone.  Would  to  Heaven  you  would 
hesitate  a  moment !"  I  said  a  great  deal  more  to  the  same 
purpose,  and  was  at  length  interrupted  by  a  message  from 
my  brother,  who  desired  to  see  me  a  few  minutes  in  the 
parlour  below.  Though  at  a  loss  as  to  what  could  occasion 
such  an  unusual  summons,  I  hastened  down. 

I  found  my  brother  with  a  strange  mixture  of  pride, 
perplexity,  and  solicitude  in  his  looks.  His  "  how  d'ye  ?" 
was  delivered  in  a  graver  tone  than  common,  and  he  be- 
trayed a  disposition  to  conciliate  my  good- will,  far  beyond 
what  I  had  ever  witnessed  before.  I  waited  with  im- 
patience to  hear  what  he  had  to  communicate. 


28  JANE  TALBOT. 

.  At  last,  with  many  pauses  and  much  hesitation,  he  said, 
"Jane,  I  suppose  your  legacy  is  untouched.  Was  it  two 
or  three  thousand  Mrs.  Matthews  put  you  down  for  in 
her  will  ?" 

"  The  sum  was  three  thousand  dollars.  You  know  that, 
though  it  was  left  entirely  at  my  own  disposal,  yet  the  he- 
quest  was  accompanied  with  advice  to  keep  it  unimpaired 
till  I  should  want  it  for  my  own  proper  subsistence.  On 
that  condition  I  received,  and  on  that  condition  shall 
keep  it." 

"I  am  glad  of  it  with  all  my  heart,"  replied  he,  with 
affected  vivacity.  "  I  was  afraid  you  had  spent  it  hy  this 
time  on  dolls,  trinkets,  and  bahy-things.  The  sum  is 
entire,  you  say  ?  In  your  drawer  ?  I  am  surprised  you 
could  resist  the  temptation  to  spend  it.  I  wonder  nobody 
thought  of  robbing  you." 

"You  cannot  suppose,  brother,  I  would  keep  that  sum 
in  my  possession  ?  You  know  it  was  in  bank  at  my  aunt's 
death,  and  there  it  has  remained." 

"At  what  bank,  pr'ythee?" 

I  told  him. 

"  Well,  I  am  extremely  glad  thou  hadst  wit  enough  to 
keep  it  snug,  for  now  the  time  has  come  to  put  it  to  some 
use.  My  father  and  I  have  a  scheme  on  foot  by  which 
we  shall  realize  immense  profit.  The  more  engines  we  set 
to  work,  the  greater  and  more  speedy  will  be  the  ultimate 
advantage.  It  occurred  to  me  that  you  had  some  money, 
and  that,  unless  it  were  better  employed,  it  would  be  but 
justice  to  allow  you  to  throw  it  into  stock.  If,  therefore, 
you  are  willing,  it  shall  be  done.  What  say  you,  Jane  ?" 

This  proposal  was  totally  unexpected.  I  harboured  not 
a  moment's  doubt  as  to  the  conduct  it  became  me  to  pursue ; 
but  how  to  declare  my  resolutions,  or  state  my  reasons  for 
declining  his  offer,  I  knew  not. 

At  last  I  stammered  out  that  my  aunt  had  bequeathed 
me  this  money  with  views  as  to  the  future  disposition  of 
it  from  which  I  did  not  think  myself  at  liberty  to  swerve. 

"And  pray,"  said  he,  with  some  heat,  "  what  were  these 
profound  views?" 

"  They  were  simple  and  obvious  views.  She  knew  my 
sex  and  education  laid  me  under  peculiar  difficulties  as  to 


JANE   TALBOT.  29 

subsistence.  As  affairs  then  stood,  there  was  little  danger 
of  ray  ever  being  reduced  to  want  or  dependence ;  but  still 
there  was  a  possibility  of  this.  To  insure  me  against  this 
possible  evil,  she  left  me  this  sum,  to  be  used  only  for  sub- 
sistence, and  when  I  should  be  deprived  of  all  other  means." 

"Go  on,"  said  my  brother.  "Repeat  the  clause  in 
which  she  forbids  you,  if  at  any  time  the  opportunity  should 
be  offered  of  doubling  or  trebling  your  money  and  thereby 
effectually  securing  that  independence  which  she  wished 
to  bequeath  to  you,  to  profit  by  the  offer.  Pray,  repeat 
that  clause." 

"  Indeed,"  said  I,  innocently,  "  there  is  no  such  clause." 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  it.  I  was  afraid  that  she  was  silly 
enough  to  insert  some  such  prohibition.  On  the  contrary, 
the  scheme  I  propose  to  you  will  merely  execute  your 
aunt's  great  purpose.  Instead  of  forbidding,  she  would 
have  earnestly  exhorted  you,  had  she  been  a  prophetess 
as  well  as  a  saint,  to  close  with  such  an  offer  as  I  now 
make  you,  in  which,  I  can  assure  you,  I  have  your  own 
good  as  well  as  my  own  in  view." 

Observing  my  silent  and  perplexed  air,  "  Why,  Jane," 
said  he,  "  surely  you  cannot  hesitate  ?  What  is  your  ob- 
jection ?  Perhaps  you  are  one  of  those  provident  animals 
who  look  before  they  leap,  and,  having  gained  a  monopoly 
of  wisdom,  will  take  no  scheme  upon  trust.  You  must 
examine  with  your  own  eyes.  I  will  explain  the  affair  to 
you,  if  you  choose,  and  convince  you  beyond  controversy 
that  your  money  may  be  trebled  in  a  twelvemonth." 

"You  know,  brother,  I  can  be  no  judge  of  any  scheme 
that  is  at  all  intricate." 

"  There  is  no  intricacy  here.  All  is  perfectly  simple 
and  obvious.  I  can  make  the  case  as  plain  to  you,  in 
three  minutes,  as  that  you  have  two  thumbs.  In  the 
English  cottons,  in  the  first  place,  there  is " 

"Nay,  brother,  it  is  entirely  unnecessary  to  explain  the 
scheme.  My  determinations  will  not  be  influenced  by 
a  statement  which  no  mortal  eloquence  will  make  intel- 
ligible to  me." 

"Well,  then,  you  consent  to  my  proposal  ?" 

"  I  would  rather  you  would  look  elsewhere  for  a  part- 
ner in  your  undertaking." 


30  JANE   TALBOT. 

"  The  girl's  a  fool ! — Why,  what  do  you  fear  ?  suspect  ? 
You  surely  cannot  doubt  my  being  faithful  to  your  in- 
terest ?  You  will  not  insult  me  so  much  as  to  suppose 
that  I  would  defraud  you  of  your  money  ?  If  you  do, — 
for  I  know  I  do  not  stand  very  high  in  your  opinion, — if 
you  doubt  my  honesty,  I  will  give  you  the  common  proofs 
of  having  received  your  money.  Nay,  so  certain  am  I  of 
success,  that  I  will  give  you  my  note,  bond,  what  you 
please,  for  thrice  the  amount,  payable  in  one  year." 

"  My  brother's  bond  will  be  of  no  use  to  me ;  I  shall 
never  go  to  law  with  my  brother." 

"Well,  then,  what  will  satisfy  you?" 

"I  am  easily  satisfied,  brother.  I  am  contented  with 
things  just  as  they  are.  The  sum,  indeed,  is  a  trifle,  but 
it  will  answer  all  my  humble  purposes." 

"Then  you  will,"  replied  he,  struggling  with  his  rage, 
"you  will  not  agree?" 

My  silence  was  an  unequivocal  answer. 

"You  turn  out  to  be  what  I  always  thought  you, — a 
little,  perverse, stupid,  obstinate — But  take  time;"  (soft- 
ening his  tone  a  little;)  "  take  time  to  consider  of  it. 

"  Some  unaccountable  oddity,  some  freak,  must  have 
taken  hold  of  you  just  now  and  turned  your  wits  out  of 
door.  'Tis  impossible  you  should  deliberately  reject  such 
an  offer.  Why,  girl,  three  thousand  dollars  has  a  great 
sound,  perhaps,  to  your  ears,  but  you'll  find  it  a  most 
wretched  pittance  if  you  should  ever  be  obliged  to  live 
upon  it.  The  interest  would  hardly  buy  you  garters  and 
topknots.  You  live,  at  this  moment,  at  the  rate  of  six 
times  the  sum.  You  are  now  a  wretched  and  precarious 
dependant  on  Mrs.  Fielder  :  her  marriage  (a  very  likely 
thing  for  one  of  her  habits,  fortune,  and  age)  will  set  you 
afloat  in  the  world ;  and  then  where  will  be  your  port  ? 
Yrour  legacy,  in  any  way  you  can  employ  it,  will  not  find 
you  bread.  Three  times  the  sum  might  answer,  perhaps ; 
and  that,  if  you  will  fall  on  my  advice,  you  may  now  at- 
tain in  a  single  twelvemonth.  Consider  these  things,  and 
I  will  call  on  you  in  the  evening  for  your  final  answer." 

He  was  going,  but  I  mustered  resolution  enough  to  call 
him  back  : — "Brother,  one  word.  All  deliberation  in  this 
case  is  superfluous.  You  may  think  my  decision  against 


JANE    TALBOT.  31 

so  plausible  a  scheme  perverse  and  absurd;  but,  in  this 
instance,  I  am  fully  sensible  that  I  have  a  right  to  do  as 
1  please,  and  shall  exert  that  right,  whatever  censure 
I  may  incur." 

"  So,  then,  you  are  determined  not  to  part  with  your 
paltry  legacy?" 

"I  am  determined  not  to  part  with  it." 

His  eyes  sparkled  with  rage,  and,  stamping  on  the 
floor,  he  exclaimed,  "Why,  then,  let  me  tell  you,  miss, 
you  are  a  damned  idiot.  I  knew  you  were  a  fool,  but  could 
not  believe  that  your  folly  would  ever  carry  you  to  these 
lengths  !" — Much  more  in  this  style  did  poor  Frank  utter 
on  this  occasion.  I  listened  trembling,  confounded, 
vexed,  and,  as  soon  as  I  could  recover  presence  of  mind, 
hastened  out  of  his  presence. 

This  dialogue  occupied  all  my  thoughts  during  that  day 
and  the  following.  I  was  sitting,  next  evening,  at  twi- 
light, pensively,  in  nay  own  apartment,  when,  to  my  infinite 
surprise,  my  brother  was  announced.  At  parting  with  him 
the  day  before,  he  swore  vehemently  that  he  would  never 
see  my  face  again  if  he  could  help  it.  I  supposed  this 
resolution  had  given  way  to  his  anxiety  to  gain  my  con- 
currence with  his  schemes,  and  would  fain  have  shunned 
a  second  interview.  This,  however,  was  impossible.  I 
therefore  composed  my  tremors  as  well  as  I  was  able,  and 
directed  him  to  be  admitted.  The  angry  emotions  of 
yesterday  had  disappeared  from  his  countenance,  and  he 
addressed  me  with  his  customary  carelessness.  After  a 
few  trifling  preliminaries,  he  asked  me  if  I  had  considered 
the  subject  of  our  yesterday's  conversation.  I  answered 
that  I  had  supposed  that  subject  to  have  been  dismissed 
forever.  It  was  not  possible  for  time  or  argument  to  bring 
us  to  the  same  way  of  thinking  on  it.  I  hoped,  therefore, 
that  he  would  not  compel  me  to  discuss  it  a  second 
time. 

Instead  of  flying  into  rage,  as  I  expected,  he  fixed  his 
eyes  thoughtfully  on  the  floor,  and,  after  a  melancholy 
pause,  said,  "I  expected  to  find  you  invincible  on  that 
head.  To  say  truth,  I  came  not  to  discuss  that  subject 
with  you  anew.  I  came  merely  to  ask  a  trifling  favour." 
Here  he  stopped.  He  was  evidently  at  a  loss  how  to 


JANE   TALBOT. 


proceed.  His  features  became  more  grave,  and  he 
actually  sighed. 

My  heart,  I  believe  thou  knowest,  Harry,  is  the  sport, 
the  mere  plaything,  of  gratitude  and  pity.  Kindness 
will  melt  my  firmest  resolutions  in  a  moment.  Entreaty 
will  lead  me  to  the  world's  end.  Gentle  accents,  mourn- 
ful looks,  in  my  brother,  was  a  claim  altogether  irresist- 
ible. The  mildness,  the  condescension  which  I  now  wit- 
nessed thrilled  to  my  heart.  A  grateful  tear  rushed  to 
my  eye,  and  I  almost  articulated,  "Dear,  dear  brother, 
be  always  thus  kind  and  thus  good,  and  I  will  lay  down 
my  life  for  you." 

It  was  well  for  us  both  that  my  brother  had  too  much 
pride  or  too  little  cunning  to  profit  by  the  peculiarities 
of  my  temper.  Had  he  put  a  brotherly  arm  around  me, 
and  said,  in  an  affectionate  tone,  "Dear  sister,  oblige 
me,"  I  am  afraid  I  should  have  instantly  complied  with 
the  most  indiscreet  and  extravagant  of  his  requests. 

Far  otherwise,  however,  was  his  deportment.  This 
condescension  was  momentary.  The  words  had  scarcely 
escaped  him  before  he  seemed  to  recollect  them  as  having 
been  unworthy  of  his  dignity.  He  resumed  his  arrogant 
and  careless  air,  half  whistled  "c,a  ira,"  and  glanced  at 
the  garden,  with,  "A  tall  poplar  that.  How  old?" 

"Not  very  old,  for  /planted  it." 

"Very  likely.  Just  such  another  giddy  head  and 
slender  body  as  the  planter's.  But,  now  I  think  of  it, 
Jane,  since  your  money  is  idle,  suppose  you  lend  me  five 
hundred  dollars  of  it  till  to-morrow.  Upon  my  honour, 
I'll  repay  it  then.  My  calls  just  now  are  particularly 
urgent.  See  here;  I  have  brought  a  check  ready  filled. 
It  only  wants  your  signature." 

I  felt  instant  and  invincible  repugnance  to  this  request. 
I  had  so  long  regarded  my  brother  as  void  of  all  discretion, 
and  as  habitually  misapplying  money  to  vicious  purposes, 
that  I  deemed  it  a  crime  of  no  inconsiderable  degree  to 
supply  the  means  of  his  prodigality.  Occasions  were 
daily  occurring  in  which  much  good  was  effected  by  a  few 
dollars,  as  well  as  much  evil  produced  by  the  want  of  them. 
My  imagination  pondered  on  the  evils  of  poverty  much 
oftener  than  perhaps  was  useful,  and  had  thence  contracted 


JANE   TALBOT.  33 

a  terror  of  it  not  easily  controlled.  My  legacy  I  had 
always  regarded  as  a  sacred  deposit, — an  asylum  in  dis- 
tress which  nothing  but  the  most  egregious  folly  would 
rob  or  dissipate.  Yet  now  I  was  called  upon  to  transfer, 
by  one  stroke  of  the  pen,  to  one  who  appeared  to  me  to 
be  engaged  in  ruinous  vices  or  chimerical  projects,  so  large 
a  portion  as  five  hundred  dollars. 

I  was  no  niggardly  hoarder  of  the  allowance  made  me 
by  my  mother;  but  so  diffident  was  I  of  my  own  dis- 
cernment, that  I  never  laid  out  twenty  dollars  without 
her  knowledge  and  concurrence.  Could  I  then  give  away 
five  hundred  of  this  sacred  treasure,  bestowed  on  me  for 
very  different  purposes,  without  her  knowledge  ?  It  was 
useless  to  acquaint  her  with  my  brother's  request  and 
solicit  her  permission.  She  would  never  grant  it. 

My  brother,  observing  me  hesitate,  said,  "  Come,  Jane; 
make  haste.  Surely  this  is  no  such  mighty  favour,  that  you 
should  stand  a  moment.  'Twill  be  all  the  same  to  you, 
since  I  return  it  to-morrow.  May  I  perish  if  I  don't!" 

I  still  declined  the  offered  pen: — "For  what  purpose, 
brother,  surely  I  may  ask? — so  large  a  sum?" 

He  laughed : — "A  mere  trifle,  girl ;  'tis  a  bare  nothing. 
But,  much  or  little,  you  shall  have  it  again,  I  tell  you, 
to-morrow.  Come ;  time  flies.  Take  the  pen,  I  say,  and 
make  no  more  words  about  the  matter." 

"Impossible,  till  I  know  the  purpose.  Do  not  urge 
me  to  a  wrong  thing." 

His  face  reddened  with  indignation.  "A  wrong  thing ! 
you  are  fool  enough  to  tire  the  patience  of  a  saint.  What 
do  I  ask,  but  the  loan  of  a  few  dollars  for  a  single  day? 
Money  that  is  absolutely  idle;  for  which  you  have  no 
use.  You  know  that  my  father's  property  is  mine,  and 
that  my  possessions  are  twenty  times  greater  than  your 
own ;  yet  you  refuse  to  lend  this  paltry  sum  for  one  day. 
Come,  Jane,  sister;  you  have  carried  your  infatuation 
far  enough.  Where  a  raw  girl  should  gain  all  these 
scruples  and  punctilios  I  can't  imagine.  Pray,  what  is 
your  objection?" 

In  these  contests  with  my  brother,  I  was  never  mistress 
of  my  thoughts.  His  boisterous,  negligent,  contemptuous 
manners  awed,  irritated,  embarrassed  me.  To  say  any 


34  JANE   TALBOT. 

thing  which  implied  censure  of  his  morals  or  his  prudence 
•would  be  only  raising  a  storm  which  my  womanish  spirit 
could  not  withstand.  In  answer  to  his  expostulations,  I 
only  repeated,  "Impossible!  I  cannot." 

Finding  me  inflexible,  he  once  more  gave  way  to  indig- 
nation:— "What  a  damned  oaf!  to  be  thus  creeping  and 
cringing  to  an  idiot — a  child — an  ape !  Nothing  but  neces- 
sity, cruel  necessity,  would  have  put  me  on  this  task." 
Then  turning  to  me,  he  said,  in  a  tone  half  supplicating, 
half  threatening,  "Let  me  ask  you  once  more:  will  you 
sign  this  check  ?  Do  not  answer  hastily ;  for  much,  very 
much,  depends  on  it.  By  all  that  is  sacred,  I  will  return 
it  to  you  to-morrow.  Do  it,  and  save  me  and  your  father 
from  infamy;  from  ruin;  from  a  prison;  from  death. 
He  may  have  cowardice  enough  to  live  and  endure  his 
infamy,  but  /have  spirit  enough  to  die  and  escape  it." 

This  was  uttered  with  an  impetuosity  that  startled  me. 
The  words  ruin,  prison,  death,  rung  in  my  ears,  and, 
almost  out  of  breath,  I  exclaimed,  "What  do  you  mean? 
my  father  go  to  prison?  my  father  ruined?  What  do 
you  mean?" 

"I  mean  what  I  say.  Your  signing  this  check  may 
save  me  from  irretrievable  ruin.  This  trifling  supply, 
which  I  can  noAvhere  else  procure,  if  it  comes  to-night, 
may  place  us  out  of  danger.  If  delayed  till  to-morrow 
morning,  there  will  be  no  remedy.  I  shall  receive  an 
adequate  sum  to-morrow  afternoon,  and  with  that  I  will 
replace  this." 

"My  father  ruined!  In  danger  of  a  jail!  Good 
Heaven !  Let  me  fly  to  him.  Let  mo  know  from  himself 
the  full  extent  of  the  evil."  I  left  my  seat  with  this 
purpose,  but  he  stopped  me: — "Are  you  mad,  girl?  He 
does  not  know  the  full  extent  of  the  evil.  Indeed,  the 
evil  will  be  perfectly  removed  by  this  trifling  loan.  He 
need  not  know  it." 

"Ah !  my  poor  father,"  said  I,  "  I  see  thy  ruin  indeed. 
Too  fatally  secure  hast  thou  been ;  too  doting  in  thy  con- 
fidence in  others."  These  words,  half  articulated,  did 
not  escape  my  brother.  He  was  at  once  astonished  and 
enraged  by  them,  and  even  in  these  circumstances  could 
not  suppress  his  resentment. 


JANE    TALBOT.  35 

He  had,  however,  conjured  up  a  spirit  in  me  which  made 
me  deaf  to  his  invective.  I  made  towards  the  door. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  You  shall  not  leave  the  room 
till  you  have  signed  this  paper." 

"Nothing  but  force  shall  keep  me  from  my  father.  I 
will  know  his  true  situation  this  instant,  from  his  own 
lips.  Let  me  go.  I  will  go." 

I  attempted  to  rush  by  him,  but  he  shut  the  door  and 
swore  I  should  not  leave  the  room  till  I  had  complied 
with  his  request. 

Perceiving  me  thoroughly  in  earnest,  and  indignant  in 
my  turn  at  his  treatment,  he  attempted  to  soothe  me,  by 
saying  that  I  had  misunderstood  him  in  relation  to  my 
father ;  that  he  had  uttered  words  at  random ;  that  he 
was  really  out  of  cash  at  this  moment;  I  should  inex- 
pressibly oblige  him  by  lending  him  this  trifling  sum  till 
to-morrow  evening. 

"Brother,  I  will  deal  candidly  with  you.  You  think 
me  childish,  ignorant,  and  giddy.  Perhaps  I  am  so ;  but 
I  have  sense  enough  to  resolve,  and  firmness  enough  to 
adhere  to  my  resolution,  never  to  give  money  without 
thoroughly  knowing  and  fully  approving  of  the  purposes 
to  which  it  is  to  be  applied.  You  tell  me  you  are  in 
extreme  want  of  an  immediate  supply.  Of  what  nature 
is  your  necessity  ?  What  has  occasioned  your  necessity  ? 
I  will  not  withhold  what  will  really  do  you  good, — what 
I  am  thoroughly  convinced  will  do  you  good ;  but  I  must 
first  be  convinced." 

"What  would  you  have  more  than  my  word?  I  tell 
you  it  will  save  your — I  tell  you  it  will  serve  me  essen- 
tially. It  is  surely  needless  to  enter  into  long  and  intri- 
cate details,  which,  ten  to  one,  you  will  not  under- 
stand." 

"As  you  please,"  said  I.  "I  have  told  you  that  I 
will  not  act  in  the  dark." 

"Well,  then,  I  will  explain  my  situation  to  you  as 
clearly  as  possible." 

He  then  proceeded  to  state  transactions  of  which  I  un- 
derstood nothing.  All  was  specious  and  plausible ;  but 
I  easily  perceived  the  advantages  under  which  he  spoke, 
and  the  gross  folly  of  suffering  my  conduct  to  be  influ- 


86  JANE    TALBOT. 

enced  by  representations  of  whose  integrity  I  had  no 
means  of  judging. 

I  will  not  detain  you  longer  by  this  conversation.  Suf- 
fice it  to  say,  that  I  positively  refused  to  comply  with  his 
wishes.  The  altercation  that  ensued  was  fortunately  in- 
terrupted by  the  entrance  of  two  or  three  visitants,  and, 
after  lingering  a  few  minutes,  he  left  the  house  gloomy 
and  dissatisfied. 

I  have  gone  into  these  incidents  with  a  minuteness  that 
I  fear  has  tired  you ;  but  I  will  be  more  concise  for  the 
future.  These  incidents  are  chiefly  introductory  to  others 
of  a  more  affecting  nature,  and  to  those  I  must  now  hasten. 
Meanwhile,  I  will  give  some  little  respite  to  my  fingers. 


LETTER  VI. 

To  Henry  Golden. 

Thursday  Morning,  October  6. 

As  soon  as  my  visitants  had  gone,  I  hastened  to  my 
father.  I  immediately  introduced  the  subject  of  which 
my  heart  was  full.  I  related  the  particulars  of  my  late 
interview  with  my  brother ;  entreated  him  with  the  utmost 
earnestness  to  make  the  proper  inquiries  into  the  state  of 
my  brother's  affairs,  with  whose  fate  it  was  too  plain  that 
his  own  were  inextricably  involved. 

He  was  seized  with  extreme  solicitude  on  hearing  my 
intelligence.  He  could  not  keep  his  chair  one  moment  at 
a  time,  but  walked  about  the  floor  trembling.  He  called 
his  servant,  and  directed  him,  in  a  faltering  voice,  to  go 
to  my  brother's  house  and  request  him  to  come  imme- 
diately. 

I  was  sensible  that  what  I  had  done  was  violently  ad- 
verse to  my  brother's  wishes.  Nevertheless,  I  urged  my 
father  to  an  immediate  explanation,  and  determined  to  be 
present  at  the  conference. 

The  messenger  returned.  My  brother  was  not  at  home. 
We  waited  a  little  while,  and  then  despatched  the  messen- 
ger again,  with  directions  to  wait  till  his  return.  We 
waited,  in  vain,  till  nine ;  ten  ;  eleven  o'clock.  The  mes- 


JAM-;    TALBOT.  37 

senger  then  came  back,  informing  us  that  Frank  was  still 
abroad.  I  was  obliged  to  dismiss  the  hope  of  a  confer- 
ence this  night,  and  returned  in  an  anxious  and  melan- 
choly mood  to  Mrs.  Fielder's. 

On  my  way,  while  ruminating  on  these  events,  I  began 
to  fear  that  I  had  exerted  an  unjustifiable  degree  of  cau- 
tion. I  knew  that  those  who  embark  in  pecuniary  schemes 
are  often  reduced  to  temporary  straits  and  difficulties ;  that 
ruin  and  prosperity  frequently  hang  on  the  decision  of  the 
moment ;  that  a  gap  may  be  filled  up  by  a  small  effort  sea- 
sonably made,  which,  if  neglected,  rapidly  widens  and  irre- 
vocably swallows  up  the  ill-fated  adventurer. 

It  was  possible  that  all  my  brother  had  said  was  literally 
true  ;  that  he  merited  my  confidence  in  this  instance,  and 
that  the  supply  he  demanded  would  save  both  him  and  my 
father  from  the  ruin  that  impended  over  them.  The  more 
I  pondered  on  the  subject,  the  more  dissatisfied  I  became 
with  my  own  scruples.  In  this  state  of  mind  I  reached 
home.  The  servant,  while  opening  the  door,  expressed 
her  surprise  at  my  staying  out  so  late,  telling  me  that 
my  brother  had  been  waiting  my  return  for  several  hours, 
with  marks  of  the  utmost  impatience.  I  shuddered  at 
this  intelligence,  though  just  before  I  had  almost  formed 
the  resolution  of  going  to  his  house  and  offering  him  the 
money  he  wanted. 

I  found  him  in  my  apartment.  "  Good  God !"  cried  he ; 
"where  have  you  been  till  this  time  of  night?" 

I  told  him  frankly  where  I  had  been,  and  what  had  de- 
tained me.  He  was  thunder-struck.  Instead  of  that  storm 
of  rage  and  invective  which  I  expected,  he  grew  pale  with 
consternation,  and  said,  in  a  faint  voice, — 

"  Jane,  you  have  ruined  me  beyond  redemption.  Fatal, 
fatal  rashness  !  It  was  enough  to  have  refused  me  a  loan 
which,  though  useless  to  you,  is  as  indispensable  to  my 
existence  as  my  heart's  blood.  Had  you  quietly  lent  me 
the  trifling  pittance  I  asked,  all  might  yet  have  been 
well, — my  father's  peace  have  been  saved  and  my  own 
affairs  been  completely  re-established." 

All  arrogance  and  indignation  were  now  laid  aside. 
His  tone  and  looks  betokened  the  deepest  distress.  All 
the  firmness,  reluctance,  and  wariness  of  my  temper  van- 


JANE    TALUOT. 


ished  in  a  moment.  My  heart  was  seized  with  an  agony 
of  compunction.  I  came  close  to  him,  and,  taking  his 
hand  involuntarily,  said,  "Dear  brother,  forgive  me." 

Strange  what  influence  calamity  possesses  in  softening 
the  character  !  He  made  no  answer,  but,  putting  his  arms 
around  me,  pressed  me  to  his  breast,  while  tears  stole 
down  his  cheek. 

Now  was  I  thoroughly  subdued.  I  am  quite  an  April 
girl,  thou  knowest,  Harry,  and  the  most  opposite  emo- 
tions fill,  with  equal  certainty,  my  eyes.  I  could  scarcely 
articulate,  "  Oh,  my  dear  brother,  forgive  me.  Take  what 
you  ask.  If  it  can  be  of  any  service  to  you,  take  all  I 
have." 

"  But  how  shall  I  see  my  father  ?  Infinite  pains  have 
I  taken  to  conceal  from  him  a  storm  which  I  thought 
could  be  easily  averted,  which  his  knowledge  of  it  would 
only  render  more  difficult  to  resist ;  but  my  cursed  folly, 
by  saying  more  than  I  intended  to  you,  has  blasted  my 
designs." 

I  again  expressed  my  regret  for  the  rashness  of  my 
conduct,  and  entreated  him  to  think  better  of  my  father 
than  to  imagine  him  invincible  to  argument.  I  promised 
to  go  to  him  in  the  morning,  and  counteract,  as  much  as 
I  could,  the  effects  of  my  evening  conversation.  At  length 
he  departed,  with  somewhat  renovated  spirits,  and  left  me 
to  muse  upon  the  strange  events  of  this  day. 

I  could  not  free  myself  from  the  secret  apprehension 
of  having  done  mischief  rather  than  good  by  my  com- 
pliance. I  had  acted  Avithout  consulting  my  mother,  in 
a  case  where  my  youth  and  inexperience  stood  in  the  ut- 
most need  of  advice.  On  the  most  trivial  occasions  I  had 
hitherto  held  it  a  sacred  duty  to  make  her  the  arbitress 
and  judge  of  my  whole  conduct;  and  now  shame  for  my 
own  precipitance  and  regard  for  my  brother's  feelings 
seemed  to  join  in  forbidding  me  to  disclose  what  had 
passed.  A  most  restless  and  unquiet  night  did  I  pass. 

Next  morning  was  I  to  go  to  my  father,  to  repair  as 
much  as  possible  the  breach  I  had  thoughtlessly  made  in 
his  happiness.  I  knew  not  what  means  to  employ  for  this 
purpose.  What  could  I  say  ?  I  was  far  from  being  satis- 
fied, myself,  with  my  brother's  representations.  I  hoped, 


JANE    TALBOT.  39 

but  had  very  little  confidence  that  any  thing  in  my  power 
to  do  would  be  of  permanent  advantage. 

These  doubts  did  not  make  me  defer  my  visit.  I  was 
greatly  surprised  to  find  my  father  as  cheerful  and  serene 
as  usual,  which  he  quickly  accounted  for  by  telling  me  that 
he  had  just  had  a  long  conversation  with  Frank,  who  had 
convinced  him  that  there  was  no  ground  for  the  terrors 
I  had  inspired  him  with  the  night  before.  He  could  not 
forbear  a  little  acrimony  on  the  impropriety  of  my  in- 
terference, and  I  tacitly  acquiesced  in  the  censure.  I 
found  that  he  knew  nothing  of  the  sum  I  had  lent,  and  I 
thought  not  proper  to  mention  it. 

That  day,  notwithstanding  his  promises  of  payment, 
passed  away  without  hearing  from  my  brother.  I  had 
never  laid  any  stress  upon  the  promise,  but  drew  a  bad 
omen  from  this  failure. 

A  few  days  elapsed  without  any  material  incident.  The 
next  occasion  on  which  my  brother  was  introduced  into 
conversation  with  Mrs.  Fielder  took  place  one  evening 
after  my  friend  had  returned  from  spending  the  day 
abroad.  After  a  pause,  in  which  there  was  more  sig- 
nificance than  usual, — "Pray,  have  you  seen  Frank 
lately?" 

I  made  some  vague  answer. 

"  He  has  been  talked  about  this  afternoon,  very  little, 
as  usual,  to  his  advantage." 

I  trembled  from  head  to  foot. 

"I  fear,"  continued  she,  "he  is  going  to  ruin,  and  will 
drag  your  father  down  the  same  precipice." 

"Dearest  madam!  what  new  circumstance?" 

"Nothing  very  new.  It  seems  Mr.  Frazer — his  wife 
told  the  story — sold  him,  a  twelvemonth  ago,  a  curricle 
and  pair  of  horses.  Part  of  the  money,  after  some  delay, 
was  paid.  The  rest  was  dunned  for  unavailingly  a  long 
time.  At  length  curricle  and  horses  scoured  the  roads 
under  the  management  of  Monsieur  Petitgvave,  brother  to 
Frank's  housekeeper,  the  handsome  mustee.  This  gave 
Frazer  uneasiness,  and  some  importunity  extorted  from 
Frank  a  note,  which,  being  due  last  Tuesday,  was,  at 
Frank's  importunity,  withdrawn  from  bank  to  prevent 
protest.  Next  day,  however,  it  was  paid." 


40  JANE    TALBOT. 

I  ventured  to  ask  if  Mrs.  Frazer  had  mentioned  any 
sum.  "Yes;  a  round  sum, — five  hundred  dollars." 

Fortunately  the  dark  prevented  my  mother  from  per- 
ceiving my  confusion.  It  was  Tuesday  evening  on  Avhich 
I  had  lent  the  money  to  Frank.  He  had  given  me  rea- 
son to  believe  that  his  embarrassments  arose  from  his 
cotton-weaving  scheme,  and  that  the  sum  demanded 
from  me  was  to  pay  the  wages  of  craving  but  worthy 
labourers. 

While  in  the  first  tumult  of  these  reflections,  some 
one  brought  a  letter.  It  was  from  my  brother.  This 
was  the  tenor  : — 

"I  fear,  Jane,  I  have  gained  but  little  credit  Avith  you 
for  punctuality.  I  ought  to  have  fulfilled  my  promise, 
you  will  say.  I  will  not  excuse  my  breach  of  it  by  say- 
ing (though  I  might  say  so,  perhaps,  with  truth)  that  you 
have  no  use  for  the  money ;  that  I  have  pressing  use  for 
it,  and  that  a  small  delay,  without  being  of  any  import- 
ance to  you,  will  be  particularly  convenient  to  me.  No ; 
the  true  and  all-sufficient  reason  why  I  did  not  return 
the  money  was — because  I  had  it  not.  To  convince  you 
that  I  am  really  in  need,  I  enclose  you  a  check  for  an- 
other five  hundred,  which  you'll  much  oblige  me  by  sign- 
ing. I  can  repay  you  both  sums  together  by  Saturday, — 
if  you  needs  must  have  it  so  soon.  The  bearer  waits." 

In  any  state  of  my  thoughts,  there  was  little  likeli- 
hood of  my  complying  with  a  request  made  in  these 
terms.  With  my  present  feelings,  it  was  difficult  to  for- 
bear returning  an  angry  and  reproachful  answer.  I  sent 
him  back  these  lines  : — 

"  I  am  thoroughly  convinced  that  it  is  not  in  my  power 
to  afford  you  any  effectual  aid  in  your  present  difficulties. 
It  will  be  very  easy  to  injure  myself.  The  request  you 
make  can  have  no  other  tendency.  I  must  therefore 
decline  complying." 

The  facility  with  which  I  had  yielded  up  my  first  reso- 
lutions probably  encouraged  him  to  this  second  applica- 
tion, and  I  formed  very  solemn  resolutions  not  to  be 
seduced  a  second  time. 

In  a  few  minutes  after  despatching  my  answer,  he  ap- 
peared. I  need  not  repeat  our  conversation.  He  ex- 


JANE   TALBOT.  41 

torted  from  me,  without  much  difficulty,  what  I  had 
heard  through  my  mother,  and — methinks  I  am  ashamed 
to  confess  it — by  exchanging  his  boisterous  airs  for  pa- 
thetic ones,  by  appealing  to  my  sisterly  affection  and 
calling  me  his  angel  and  saviour,  and  especially  by  so- 
lemnly affirming  that  Frazer's  story  was  a  calumny,  I 
at  length  did  as  he  would  have  me :  yet  only  for  three 
hundred ;  I  would  not  go  beyond  that  sum. 

The  moment  he  left  me,  I  perceived  the  weakness  and 
folly  of  my  conduct  in  the  strongest  light.  I  renewed 
all  my  prudent  determinations;  yet,  strange  to  tell, 
within  less  than  a  week,  the  same  scene  of  earnest  im- 
portunity on  his  side,  and  of  foolish  flexibility  on  mine, 
was  reacted. 

With  every  new  instance  of  folly,  my  shame  and  self- 
condemnation  increased,  and  the  more  difficult  I  found 
it  to  disclose  the  truth  to  my  mother. 

In  the  course  of  a  very  few  days,  one-half  of  my  little 
property  was  gone.  A  sum  sufficient,  according  to  my 
system  of  economy,  to  give  me  decent  independence  of 
the  world  for  at  least  three  years,  had  been  dissipated 
by  the  prodigality  of  a  profligate  woman.  At  the  time, 
indeed,  I  was  ignorant  of  this.  It  was  impossible  not  to 
pay  some  regard  to  the  plausible  statements  and  vehe- 
ment asseverations  of  my  brother,  and  to  suffer  them  to 
weigh  something  against  charges  which  might  possibly  be 
untrue.  As  soon  as  accident  had  put  me  in  full  pos- 
session of  the  truth  on  this  head,  I  was  no  longer  thus 
foolishly  obsequious. 

The  next  morning  after  our  last  interview  I  set  out, 
as  usual,  to  bid  good-morrow  to  my  father.  My  uneasy 
thoughts  led  me  unaware  to  extend  my  walk,  till  I  reached 
the  door  of  a  watchmaker  with  whom  my  servant  had, 
some  time  before,  left  a  watch  to  be  repaired.  It  occurred 
to  me  that,  since  I  was  now  on  the  spot,  I  might  as  well 
stop  and  make  some  inquiry  about  it.  On  entering  the 
shop  I  almost  repented  of  my  purpose,  as  two  persons 
were  within  the  bar,  if  I  may  call  it  so,  seated  in  a 
lounging  posture,  by  a  small  stove,  smoking  cigars  and 
gazing  at  me  with  an  air  of  indolent  impertinence.  I 
determined  to  make  my  stay  as  short  as  possible,  and 
4* 


42  JANE   TALBOT. 

hurried  over  a  few  questions  to  the  artist,  who  knew  me 
only  as  the  owner  of  the  watch.  My  attention  was 
quickly  roused  by  one  of  the  loungers,  who,  having  satis- 
fied his  curiosity  hy  gazing  at  me.  turned  to  the  other 
and  said,  "  Well,  you  have  hardly  heen  to  Frank's  this 
morning,  I  suppose?" 

"Indeed,  but  I  have,"  was  the  reply. 
"Why,  damn  it,  you  pinch  too  hard.     Well,  and  what 
success  ?" 

"Why,  what  do  you  think  ?" 

"  Another  put-off;  another  call-again,  to-be-sure." 
"I  would  not  go  till  he  downed  with  the  stuff." 
"No!"  (with  a  broad  stare;)  "it  a'n't  possible." 
"Seeing  is  believing,  I  hope;"  (producing  a  piece  of 
paper.) 

"Why,  so  it  is.  A  check! — but — what's  that  name? 
— let's  see,"  (stooping  to  examine  the  signature:) — 
"Jane  Talbot.  Who  the  devil  is  she?" 

"Don't  you  know  her?  She's  his  sister.  A  devilish 
rich  girl." 

"But  how?  does  she  lend  him  money?" 
"Yes,  to-be-sure.     She's  his  sister,  you  know." 
"But  how  does  she  get  money?     Is  she  a  widow?" 
"No.     She  is  a  girl,  I've  heard,  not  eighteen.     'Tis 
not  my  look-out  how  she  gets  money,  so  as  her  check's 
good;  and  that  I'll  fix  as  soon  as  the  door's  open." 

"Why,  damn  it  if  I  don't  think  it  a  forgery.  How 
should  such  a  girl  as  that  get  so  much  money?" 

"  Can't  conceive.  Coax  or  rob  her  aunt  of  it,  I  sup- 
pose. If  she's  such  another  as  Frank,  she  is  able  to 
outwit  the  devil.  I  hope  it  may  be  good.  If  it  isn't, 
he  sha'n't  be  his  own  man  one  day  longer." 
"But  how  did  you  succeed  so  well?" 
"  He  asked  me  yesterday  to  call  once  more.  So  I 
called,  you  see,  betimes,  and,  finding  that  he  had  a 
check  for  a  little  more  than  my  debt,  I  teased  him  out 
of  it,  promising  to  give  him  the  balance.  I  pity  the 
fellow  from  my  soul.  It  was  all  for  trinkets  and  furni- 
ture bought  by  that  prodigal  jade,  Mademoiselle  Cou- 
teau.  She  would  ruin  a  prince,  if  she  'had  him  as  much 
at  her  command  as  she  has  Frank.  Little  does  the  sistei 


JANE    TALBOT.  43 

know  for  what  purpose  she  gives  her  money :  however, 
that,  as  I  said  before,  be  her  look-out." 

During  this  dialogue,  my  eye  was  fixed  upon  the  artist, 
who,  with  the  watch  open  in  one  hand,  and  a  piece  of  wire 
in  the  other,  was  describing,  with  great  formality,  the 
exact  nature  of  the  defect  and  the  whole  process  of  the 
cure ;  but,  though  I  looked  steadfastly  at  him,  I  heard  not 
a  syllable  of  his  dissertation.  I  broke  away  when  his 
first  pause  allowed  me. 

The  strongest  emotion  in  my  heart  was  resentment. 
That  my  name  should  be  prostituted  by  the  foul  mouths 
of  such  wretches,  and  my  money  be  squandered  for  the 
gratification  of  a  meretricious  vagabond,  were  indignities 
not  to  be  endured.  I  was  carried  involuntarily  towards 
my  brother's  house.  I  had  lost  all  that  awe  in  his  pre- 
sence and  trepidation  at  his  scorn  which  had  formerly 
been  so  troublesome.  His  sarcasms  or  revilings  had 
become  indifferent  to  me,  as  every  day's  experience  had 
of  late  convinced  me  that  in  no  valuable  attribute  was 
he  anywise  superior  to  his  sister.  The  consciousness  of 
having  been  deceived  and  wronged  by  him  set  me  above 
both  his  anger  and  his  flattery.  I  was  hastening  to  his 
house  to  give  vent  to  my  feelings,  when  a  little  considera- 
tion turned  my  steps  another  way.  I  recollected  that  I 
should  probably  meet  his  companion,  and  that  was  an 
encounter  which  I  had  hitherto  carefully  avoided.  I 
went,  according  to  my  first  design,  to  my  father's ;  I  was 
in  hopes  of  meeting  Frank  there  some  time  in  the  day, 
or  of  being  visited  by  him  at  Mrs.  Fielder's. 

My  soul  was  in  a  tumult  that  unfitted  me  for  conversa- 
tion. I  felt  hourly-increasing  remorse  at  having  con- 
cealed my  proceedings  from  my  mother.  I  imagined 
that,  had  I  treated  her  from  the  first  with  the  confidence 
due  to  her,  I  should  have  avoided  all  my  present  diffi- 
culties. NOAV  the  obstacles  to  confidence  appeared  in- 
surmountable, and  my  only  consolation  was,  that  by 
inflexible  resolution  I  might  shun  any  new  cause  for 
humiliation  and  regret. 

I  had  pui-posed  to  spend  the  greater  part  of  the  day  at 
my  father's,  chiefly  in  the  hope  of  a  meeting  with  my 
brother  ;  but,  after  dinner,  my  mother  sent  for  me  home. 


44  JANE    TALBOT. 

Something,  methouglit,  very  extraordinary,  must  have 
happened,  as  my  mother  was  well :  as,  according  to  the 
messenger's  account,  she  had  just  parted  with  a  gentle- 
man who  seemed  to  have  visited  her  on  private  business, 
my  heart  misgave  me. 

As  soon  as  I  got  home,  my  mother  took  me  into  her 
chamber,  and  told  me,  after  an  affecting  preface,  that  a 

gentleman  in  office  at Bank  had  called  on  her  and 

informed  her  that  checks  of  my  signing  to  a  very  large 
amount  had  lately  been  offered,  and  that  the  last  made 
its  appearance  to-day,  and  was  presented  by  a  man  with 
whom  it  was  highly  disreputable  for  one  in  my  condition 
to  be  thought  to  have  any  sort  of  intercourse. 

You  may  suppose  that,  after  this  introduction,  I  made 
haste  to  explain  every  particular.  My  mother  was  sur- 
prised and  grieved.  She  rebuked  me,  with  some  asperity, 
for  my  reserves.  Had  I  acquainted  her  with  my  brother's 
demands,  she  could  have  apprized  me  of  all  that  I  had 
since  discovered.  My  brother,  she  asserted,  was  involved 
beyond  any  one's  power  to  extricate  him,  and  his  temper, 
his  credulity,  were  such  that  he  was  forever  doomed  to 
poverty. 

I  had  scarcely  parted  with  my  mother  on  this  occasion, 
to  whom  I  had  promised  to  refer  every  future  application, 
when  my  brother  made  his  appearance.  I  was  prepared 
to  overwhelm  him  with  upbraidings  for  his  past  conduct, 
but  found  my  tongue  tied  in  his  presence.  I  could  not 
bear  to  inflict  so  much  shame  and  mortification;  and 
besides,  the  past  being  irrevocable,  it  would  only  aggra- 
vate the  disappointment  which  I  was  determined  every 
future  application  should  meet  with.  After  some  vague 
apology  for  non-payment,  he  applied  for  a  new  loan.  He 
had  borrowed,  he  said,  of  a  deserving  man,  a  small  sum, 
which  he  was  now  unable  to  repay.  The  poor  fellow  was 
in  narrow  circumstances ;  was  saddled  with  a  numerous 
family ;  had  been  prevailed  upon  to  lend,  after  extreme 
urgency  on  my  brother's  part;  was  now  driven  to  the 
utmost  need,  and  by  a  prompt  repayment  would  probably 
be  saved  from  ruin.  A  minute  and  plausible  account  of 
the  way  in  which  the  debt  originated,  and  his  inability 
to  repay  it  shown  to  have  proceeded  from  no  fault  of  his. 


JANE   TALBOT.  45 

I  repeatedly  endeavoured  to  break  off  the  conversation, 
by  abruptly  leaving  the  room ;  but  he  detained  me  by  im- 
portunity, by  holding  my  hand,  -by  standing  against  the 
door.  * 

How  irresistible  is  supplication !  The  glossings  and 
plausibilities  of  eloquence  are  inexhaustible.  I  found 
my  courage  wavering.  After  a  few  ineffectual  struggles, 
I  ceased  to  contend.  He  saw  that  little  remained  to 
complete  his  conquest;  and,  to  effect  that  little,  by  con- 
vincing me  that  his  tale  was  true,  he  stepped  out  a  moment, 
to  bring  in  his  creditor,  whose  anxiety  had  caused  him 
to  accompany  Frank  to  the  door. 

This  momentary  respite  gave  me  time  to  reflect.  I 
ran  through  the  door,  now  no  longer  guarded ;  up-stairs 
I  flew  into  my  mother's  chamber,  and  told  her  from  what 
kind  of  persecution  I  had  escaped. 

While  I  was  speaking,  some  one  knocked  at  the  door. 
It  was  a  servant,  despatched  by  my  brother  to  summon 
me  back.  My  mother  went  in  my  stead.  I  was  left, 
for  some  minutes,  alone. 

So  persuasive  had  been  my  brother's  rhetoric,  that  I 
began  to  regret  my  flight. 

I  felt  something  like  compunction  at  having  deprived 
him  of  an  opportunity  to  prove  his  assertions.  Every 
gentle  look  and  insinuating  accent  reappeared  to  my 
memory,  and  I  more  than  half  repented  my  inflexibility. 

While  buried  in  these  thoughts,  my  mother  returned. 
She  told  me  that  my  brother  was  gone,  after  repeatedly 
requesting  an  interview  with  me,  and  refusing  to  explain 
his  business  to  any  other  person. 

"Was  there  anybody  with  him,  madam?" 

"Yes.  One  Clarges, —  a  jeweller, — an  ill-looking, 
suspicious  person." 

"Do  you  know  any  thing  of  this  Clarges?" 

"Nothing  but  what  I  am  sorry  to  know.  He  is  a  dis- 
solute fellow,  who  has  broken  the  hearts  of  two  wives, 
and  thrown  his  children  for  maintenance  on  their  maternal 
relations.  'Tis  the  same  who  carried  your  last  check  to 
the  bank." 

I  just  then  faintly  recollected  the  name  of  Clarges,  as 
having  occurred  in  the  conversation  at  the  watchmaker's, 


46  JANE   TALBOT. 

and  as  being  the  name  of  him  who  had  produced  the 
paper.  This,  then,  was  the  person  who  was  to  have  been 
introduced  to  me  as  the  friend  in  need,  the  meritorious 
father  of  a  numerous  family,  whom  the  payment  of  a  just 
debt  was  to  relieve  from  imminent  ruin !  How  loathsome, 
how  detestable,  how  insecure,  are  fraud  and  treachery ! 
Had  he  been  confronted  with  me,  no  doubt  he  would  have 
recognised  the  person  whom  he  stared  at  at  the  watch- 
maker's. 

Next  morning  I  received  a  note,  dated  on  the  pre- 
ceding evening.  These  were  the  terms  of  it : — 

"I  am  sorry  to  say,  Jane,  that  the  ruin  of  a  father 
and  brother  may  justly  be  laid  at  your  door.  Not  to 
save  them,  when  the  means  were  in  your  power,  and 
when  entreated  to  use  the  means,  makes  you  the  author 
of  their  ruin.  The  crisis  has  come.  Had  you  shown  a 
little  mercy,  the  crisis  might  have  terminated  favourably. 
As  it  is,  we  are  undone.  You  do  not  deserve  to  know 
the  place  of  my  retreat.  Your  unsisterly  heart  will 
prompt  you  to  intercept  rather  than  to  aid  or  connive  at 
my  flight.  Fly  I  must;  whither,  it  is  pretty  certain, 
will  never  come  to  your  knowledge.  Farewell." 

My  brother's  disappearance,  the  immediate  ruin  of  my 
father,  whose  whole  fortune  was  absorbed  by  debts  con- 
tracted in  his  name,  and  for  the  most  part  without  his 
knowledge,  the  sudden  affluence  of  the  adventurer  who 
had  suggested  his  projects  to  my  brother,  were  the  imme- 
diate consequences  of  this  event.  To  a  man  of  my  father's 
habits  and  views,  no  calamity  can  be  conceived  greater 
than  this.  Never  did  I  witness  a  more  sincere  grief,  a 
more  thorough  despair.  Every  thing  he  once  possessed 
was  taken  away  from  him  and  sold.  My  mother,  how- 
ever, prevented  all  the  most  opprobrious  effects  of  poverty, 
and  all  in  my  power  to  alleviate  his  solitude,  and  console 
him  in  his  distress,  was  done. 

Would  you  have  thought,  after  this  simple  relation, 
that  there  was  any  room  for  malice  and  detraction  to 
build  up  their  inventions  ? 

My  brother  was  enraged  that  I  refused  to  comply  with 
any  of  his  demands;  not  grateful  for  the  instances  in 
which  I  did  comply.  Clarges  resented  the  disappoint- 


JANE    TALBOT.  47 

ment  of  his  scheme  as  much  as  if  honour  and  integrity 
had  given  him  a  title  to  success. 

How  many  times  has  the  story  heen  told,  and  with 
what  variety  of  exaggeration,  that  the  sister  refused  to 
lend  her  brother  money,  when  she  had  plenty  at  command, 
and  when  a  seasonable  loan  would  have  prevented  the 
ruin  of  her  family,  while,  at  the  same  time,  she  had  such 
an  appetite  for  toys  and  baubles,  that  ere  yet  she  was 
eighteen  years  old  she  ran  in  debt  to  Charges  the  jeweller 
for  upwards  of  five  hundred  dollars'-worth ! 

You  are  the  only  person  to  whom  I  have  thought  my- 
self bound  to  tell  the  whole  truth.  I  do  not  think  my 
reluctance  to  draw  the  follies  of  my  brother  from  oblivion 
a  culpable  one.  I  am  willing  to  rely,  for  my  justification 
from  malicious  charges,  on  the  general  tenor  of  my  actions, 
and  am  scarcely  averse  to  buy  my  brother's  reputation 
at  the  cost  of  my  own.  The  censure  of  the  undistinguishing 
and  undistinguished  multitude  gives  me  little  uneasiness. 
Indeed,  the  disapprobation  of  those  who  have  no  particular 
connection  with  us  is  a  very  faint,  dubious,  and  momentary 
feeling.  We  are  thought  of,  now  and  then,  by  chance,  and 
immediately  forgotten.  Their  happiness  is  unaffected  by 
the  sentence  casually  pronounced  on  us,  and  we  suffer  no- 
thing, since  it  scarcely  reaches  our  ears,  and  the  interval 
between  the  judge  and  the  culprit  hinders  it  from  having 
any  influence  on  their  actions.  Not  so  when  the  censure 
reaches  those  who  love  us.  The  charge  engrosses  their 
attention,  influences  their  happiness,  and  regulates  their 
deportment  towards  us.  My  self-regard,  and  my  regard 
for  you,  equally  lead  me  to  vindicate  myself  to  you  from 
any  charge,  however  chimerical  or  obsolete  it  may  be. 

My  brother  went  to  France.  He  seemed  disposed  to 
forget  that  he  ever  had  kindred  or  country ;  never  informed 
us  of  his  situation  and  views.  All  our  tidings  of  him  came 
to  us  indirectly.  In  this  way  AVC  heard  that  he  procured 
a  commission  in  the  republican  troops,  had  made  some 
fortunate  campaigns,  and  had  enriched  himself  by  lucky 
speculations  in  the  forfeited  estates. 

My  mother  was  informed,  by  some  one  lately  returned 
from  Paris,  that  Frank  had  attained  possession  of  the 
whole  property  of  an  emigrant  Compte  de  Puysegur,  who 


48  JANE    TALBOT. 

was  far  from  being  the  poorest  of  the  ancient  nobles ; 
that  he  lived,  with  princely  luxury,  in  the  count's  hotel ; 
that  he  had  married,  according  to  the  new  mode,  the 
compte's  sister,  and  was  probably,  for  the  remainder  of  his 
life,  a  Frenchman.  He  is  attentive  to  his  countrymen, 
and  this  reporter  partook  of  several  entertainments  at  his 
house. 

Methinks  the  memory  of  past  incidents  must  sometimes 
intrude  upon  his  thoughts.  Can  he  have  utterly  for- 
gotten the  father  whom  he  reduced  to  indigence,  whom 
he  sent  to  a  premature  grave  ?  Amidst  his  present  opu- 
lence, one  would  think  it  would  occur  to  him  to  inquire 
into  the  eifects  of  his  misconduct,  not  only  to  his  own 
family,  but  on  others. 

What  a  strange  diversity  there  is  among  human  cha- 
racters !  Frank  is,  I  question  not,  gay,  volatile,  impe- 
tuous as  ever.  The  jovial  carousal  and  the  sound  sleep 
are  never  molested,  I  dare  say,  by  the  remembrance  of 
the  incidents  I  have  related  to  you. 

Methinks,  had  I  the  same  heavy  charges  to  make  against 
my  conscience,  I  should  find  no  refuge  but  death  from  the 
goadings  of  remorse.  To  have  abandoned  a  father  to  the 
jail  or  the  hospital,  or  to  the  charity  of  strangers, — a  father 
too  who  had  yielded  him  an  affection  and  a  trust  without 
limits ;  to  have  wronged  a  sister  out  of  the  little  property  on 
which  she  relied  for  support  to  her  unprotected  youth  or 
helpless  age, — a  sister  who  was  virtually  an  orphan,  who 
had  no  natural  claim  upon  her  present  patroness,  but  might 
be  dismissed  penniless  from  the  house  that  sheltered  her, 
without  exposing  the  self-constituted  mother  to  any  re- 
proach. 

And  has  not  this  event  taken  place  already  ?  What 
can  I  expect  but  that,  at  least,  it  will  take  place  as  soon 
as  she  hears  of  my  resolution  with  regard  to  thee  ?  She 
ought  to  know  it  immediately.  I  myself  ought  to  tell 
it,  and  this  was  one  of  the  tasks  which  I  designed  to  per- 
form in  your  absence :  yet,  alas !  I  know  not  how  to  set 
about  it. 

My  fingers  are  for  once  thoroughly  weary.  I  must 
lay  down  the  pen.  But  first ;  why  don' 1 1  hear  from  you  ? 
Every  day  since  Sunday,  when  you  left  me,  have  I  de- 


JANE    TALBOT.  49 

spatched  an  enormous  packet,  and  have  not  received  a 
sentence  in  answer.  'Tis  not  well  done,  my  friend,  to 
forget  and  neglect  me  thus.  You  gave  me  some  reason, 
indeed,  to  expect  no  very  sudden  tidings  from  you ;  but 
there  is  inexpiable  treason  in  the  silence  of  four  long  days. 
If  you  do  not  offer  substantial  excuses  for  this  delay,  woe 
be  to  thee ! 

Take  this  letter,  and  expect  not  another  syllable  from 
my  pen  till  I  hear  from  you. 


LETTER  VII. 

To  Henry  Golden. 

Thursday  Night. 

WHAT  a  little  thing  subverts  my  peace, — dissipates  my 
resolutions  !  Am  I  not  an  honest,  foolish  creature,  Hal  ? 
I  uncover  this  wayward  heart  to  thy  view  as  promptly 
as  if  the  disclosure  had  no  tendency  to  impair  thy  esteem 
and  forfeit  thy  love ;  that  is,  to  devote  me  to  death, — to 
ruin  me  beyond  redemption. 

And  yet,  if  the  unveiling  of  my  follies  should  have  this 
effect,  I  think  I  should  despise  thee  for  stupidity  and 
hate  thee  for  ingratitude ;  for  whence  proceed  my  irre- 
solution, my  vicissitudes  of  purpose,  but  from  my  love  ? 
and  that  man's  heart  must  be  made  of  strange  stuff  that 
can  abhor  or  contemn  a  woman  for  loving  him  too  much. 
Of  such  stuff  the  heart  of  my  friend,  thank  Heaven,  is  not 
made.  Though  I  love  him  far — far  too  much,  he  will  not 
trample  on  or  scoff  at  me. 

But  how  my  pen  rambles  ! — No  wonder ;  for  my  intel- 
lects are  in  a  strange  confusion.  There  is  an  acute  pain 
just  here.  Give  me  your  hand  and  let  me  put  it  on  the 
very  spot.  Alas  !  there  is  no  dear  hand  within  my  reach. 
I  remember  feeling  just  such  a  pain  but  once  before.  Then 
you  chanced  to  be  seated  by  my  side.  I  put  your  hand 
to  the  spot,  and,  strange  to  tell,  a  moment  after  I  looked 
for  the  pain  and  'twas  gone, — utterly  vanished !  Cannot 
I  imagine  so  strongly  as  to  experience  that  relief  which 
5 


50  JANE    TALBOT. 

your  hand  pressed  to  my  forehead  would  give  ?  Let  me 
lay  down  the  pen  and  try. 

Ah !  my  friend !  when  present,  thou'rt  an  excellent 
physician ;  but  as  thy  presence  is  my  cure,  so  thy  absence 
is  my  only,  my  fatal  malady. 

My  desk  is,  of  late,  always  open ;  my  paper  spread ;  my 
pen  moist.  I  must  talk  to  you,  though  you  give  me  no 
answer,  though  I  have  nothing  but  gloomy  forebodings 
to  communicate,  or  mournful  images  to  call  up.  I  must 
talk  to  you,  even  when  you  cannot  hear ;  when  invisible  ; 
when  distant  many  a  mile.  It  is  some  relief  even  to  cor- 
poral agonies.  Even  the  pain  which  I  just  now  com- 
plained of  is  lessened  since  I  took  up  the  pen.  Oh,  Hal ! 
Hal !  if  you  ever  prove  ungrateful  or  a  traitor  to  me, 
and  there  be  a  state  retributive  hereafter,  terrible  will  be 
thy  punishment. 

But  why  do  I  talk  to  thee  thus  wildly  ?  Why  deal  I  in 
such  rueful  prognostics  ?  I  want  to  tell  you  why,  for  I 
have  a  reason  for  my  present  alarms  :  they  all  spring  from 
one  source, — my  doubts  of  thy  fidelity.  Yes,  Henry, 
since  your  arrival  at  Wilmington  you  have  been  a  frequent 
visitant  of  Miss  Seeker,  and  have  kept  a  profound  silence 
towards  me. 

Nothing  can  be  weaker  and  more  silly  than  these  dis- 
quiets. Cannot  my  friend  visit  a  deserving  woman  a  few 
times  but  my  terrors  must  impertinently  intrude  ? — Can- 
not he  forget  the  pen,  and  fail  to  write  to  me,  for  half  a 
week  together,  but  my  rash  resentments  must  conjure  up 
the  phantoms  of  ingratitude  and  perfidy? 

Pity  the  weakness  of  a  fond  heart,  Henry,  and  let  me 
hear  from  you,  and  be  your  precious  and  long-withheld 
letter  my  relief  from  every  disquiet.  I  believe,  and  do 
not  believe,  what  I  have  heard,  and  what  I  have  heard 
teems  with  a  thousand  mischiefs,  or  is  fair  and  innocent, 
according  to  my  reigning  temper. — Adieu;  but  let  me 
hear  from  you  immediately. 


JANE   TALBOT.  51 


LETTER  VIII. 
To  Jane  Tallot. 

Wilmington,  Saturday,  October  9. 

I  THOUGHT  I  had  convinced  my  friend  that  a  letter 
from  me  ought  not  to  be  expected  earlier  than  Monday. 
I  left  her  to  gratify  no  fickle  humour,  nor  because  my 
chief  pleasure  lay  anywhere  but  in  her  company.  She 
knew  of  my  design  to  make  some  stay  at  this  place,  and 
that  the  business  that  occasioned  my  stay  would  leave 
me  no  leisure  to  write. 

Is  it  possible  that  my  visits  to  Miss  Seeker  have  given 
you  any  concern  ?  Why  must  the  source  of  your  anxiety 
be  always  so  mortifying  and  opprobrious  to  me  ?  That 
the  absence  of  a  few  days,  and  the  company  of  another 
woman,  should  be  thought  to  change  my  sentiments,  and 
make  me  secretly  recant  those  vows  which  I  offered  to 
you,  is  an  imputation  on  my  common  sense  which — I  sup- 
pose I  deserve.  You  judge  of  me  from  what  you  know 
of  me.  How  can  you  do  otherwise  ?  If  my  past  conduct 
naturally  creates  such  suspicions,  who  am  I  to  blame  but 
myself?  Reformation  should  precede  respect ;  and  how 
should  I  gain  confidence  in  my  integrity  but  as  the  fruit 
of  perseverance  in  well-doing? 

Alas !  how  much  has  he  lost  who  has  forfeited  his  own 
esteem ! 

As  to  Miss  Seeker,  your  ignorance  of  her,  and,  I  may 
add,  of  yourself,  has  given  her  the  preference.  You 
think  her  your  superior,  no  doubt,  in  every  estimable  and 
attractive  quality,  and  therefore  suspect  her  influence  on 
a  being  so  sensual  and  volatile  as  poor  Hal.  Were  she 
really  more  loVely,  the  faithless  and  giddy  wretch  might 
possibly  forget  you ;  but  Miss  Seeker  is  a  woman  whose 
mind  and  person  are  not  only  inferior  to  yours,  but  wholly 
unfitted  to  inspire  love.  If  it  were  possible  to  smile  in  my 
present  mood,  I  think  I  should  indulge  one  smile  at  the 
thought  of  falling  in  love  with  a  woman  who  has  scarcely 
had  education  enough  to  enable  her  to  write  her  name, 


52  JANE   TALBOT. 

who  has  been  confined  to  her  bed  about  eighteen  months 
by  a  rheumatism  contracted  by  too  assiduous  application 
to  the  wash-tub,  and  who  often  boasts  that  she  was  born, 
not  above  forty-five  years  ago,  in  an  upper  story  of  the 
mansion  at  Mount  Vernon. 

You  do  not  tell  me  who  it  was  that  betrayed  me  to  you. 
I  suspect,  however,  it  was  Miss  Jessup.  She  was  passing 
through  this  town,  in  her  uncle's  carriage,  on  Wednes- 
day, on  her  way  home.  Seeing  me  come  out  of  the  poor 
woman's  lodgings,  she  stopped  the  coach,  prated  for  five 
minutes,  and  left  me  with  ironical  menaces  of  telling 
you  of  my  frequent  visits  to  a  single  lady,  of  whom  it 
appeared  that  she  had  some  knowledge.  Thus  you  see 
that  your  disquiets  have  had  no  foundation  but  in  the 
sportive  malice  of  your  talkative  neighbour. 

Hannah  Seeker  chanced  to  be  talked  of  at  Mr.  Hen- 
shaw's  as  a  poor  creature,  who  was  sick  and  destitute, 
and  lay,  almost  deserted,  in  a  neighbouring  hovel.  She 
existed  on  charity,  which  was  the  more  scanty  and  re- 
luctant as  she  bore  but  an  indifferent  character  either 
for  honesty  or  gratitude. 

The  name,  when  first  mentioned,  struck  my  ear  as 
something  that  had  once  been  familiar,  and,  in  my  soli- 
tary evening  walk,  I  stopped  at  her  cottage.  The  sight 
of  her,  though  withered  by  age  and  disease,  called  her 
fully  to  mind.  Three  years  ago,  she  lived  in  the  city, 
and  had  been  very  serviceable  to  me  in  the  way  of  her 
calling.  I  had  dismissed  her,  however,  after  receiving 
several  proofs  that  a  pair  of  silk  stockings  and  a  muslin 
cravat  offered  too  mighty  a  temptation  for  her  virtue. 
You  know  I  have  but  little  money  to  spare  from  my  own 
necessities,  and  all  the  service  I  could  render  her  was 
to  be  her  petitioner  and  advocate  with  some  opulent 
families  in  this  place.  But  enough — and  too  much — of 
Hannah  Seeker. 

Need  I  say  that  I  have  read  your  narrative,  and  that 
I  fully  acquit  you  of  the  guilt  laid  to  your  charge  ?  That 
was  done,  indeed,  before  I  heard  your  defence,  and  I 
was  anxious  to  hear  your  story,  merely  because  all  that 
relates  to  you  is  in  the  highest  degree  interesting  to  me. 

This  letter,  notwithstanding  my  engagements,  should 


JANE    TALBOT.  53 

be  longer,  if  I  were  not  in  danger,  by  writing  on,  of 
losing  the  post.  -So,  dearest  love,  farewell,  and  tell  me 
in  your  next  (which  I  shall  expect  on  Tuesday)  that 
every  pain  has  vanished  from  your  head  and  from  your 
heart.  You  may  as  well  delay  writing  to  your  mother 
till  I  return.  I  hope  it  will  be  permitted  me  to  do  so 
very  shortly.  Again,  my  only  friend,  farewell. 

HENRY  COLDEN. 


LETTER  IX. 

To  Henry  Golden. 

Philadelphia,  Monday,  October  11. 

I  AM  ashamed  of  myself,  Henry.  What  an  incon- 
sistent creature  am  I !  I  have  just  placed  this  dear  letter 
of  yours  next  my  heart.  The  sensation  it  aifords,  at  this 
moment,  is  delicious;  almost  as  much  so  as  I  once  ex- 
perienced from  a  certain  somebody's  hand  placed  on  the 
same  spot.  But  that  somebody's  hand  was  never  (if  I 
recollect  aright)  so  highly  honoured  as  this  paper.  Have 
I  not  told  you  that  your  letter  is  deposited  next  my  heart  ? 

And  with  all  these  proofs  of  the  pleasure  your  letter 
affords  me,  could  you  guess  at  the  cause  of  those  tears 
which,  even  now,  have  not  ceased  flowing  ?  Your  letter 
has  so  little  tenderness — is  so  very  cold.  But  let  me  not 
be  ungrateful  for  the  preference  you  grant  me,  merely 
because  it  is  not  so  enthusiastic  and  unlimited  as  my  own. 

I  suppose,  if  I  had  not  extorted  from  you  some  ac- 
count of  this  poor  woman,  I  should  never  have  heard  a 
syllable  of  your  meeting  with  her.  It  is  surely  possible 
for  people  to  be  their  own  calumniators,  to  place  tj^eir 
own  actions  in  the  worst  light,  to  exaggerate  their  faults 
and  conceal  their  virtues.  If  the  fictions  and  artifices 
of  vanity  be  detestable,  the  concealment  of  our  good 
actions  is  surely  not  without  guilt.  The  conviction  of 
our  guilt  is  painful  to  those  that  love  us :  wantonly  and 
needlessly  to  give  this  pain  is  very  perverse  and  unjusti- 
fiable. If  a  contrary  deportment  argue  vanity,  self- 
detraction  seems  to  be  the  offspring  of  pride. 


54  JANE   TALBOT. 

Thou  art  the  strangest  of  men,  Henry.  Thy  whole 
conduct  with  regard  to  me  has  been  a  tissue  of  self- 
upbraidings.  You  have  disclosed  not  only  a  thousand 
misdeeds  (as  you  have  thought  them)  which  could  not 
possibly  hav-e  come  to  myknowledge  by  any  other  means, 
but  have  laboured  to  ascribe  even  your  commendable 
actions  to  evil  or  ambiguous  motives.  Motives  are  im- 
penetrable, and  a  thousand  cases  have  occurred  in  which 
every  rational  observer  would  have  supposed  you  to  be 
influenced  by  the  best  motives,  but  where,  if  credit  be 
due  to  your  own  representations,  your  motives  were  far 
from  being  laudable. 

Why  is  my  esteem  rather  heightened  than  depressed 
by  this  deportment?  In  truth,  there  is  no  crime  which 
remorse  will  not  expiate,  and  no  more  shining  virtue  in 
the  whole  catalogue  than  sincerity.  Besides,  your  own 
account  of  yourself,  with  all  the  exaggerations  of  hu- 
mility, proved  you,  on  the  whole,  and  with  the  allowances 
necessarily  made  by  every  candid  person,  to  be  a  very 
excellent  man. 

Your  deportment  to  me  ought  chiefly  to  govern  my 
opinion  of  you ;  and  have  you  not  been  uniformly  gene- 
rous, sincere,  and  upright  ? — not  quite  passionate  enough, 
perhaps ;  no  blind  and  precipitate  enthusiast.  Love  has 
not  banished  discretion,  or  blindfolded  your  sagacity; 
and,  as  I  should  forgive  a  thousand  errors  on  the  score 
of  love,  I  cannot  fervently  applaud  that  wisdom  which 
tramples  upon  love.  Thou  hast  a  thousand  excellent 
qualities,  Henry ;  that  is  certain :  yet  a  little  more  im- 
petuosity and  fervour  in  thy  tenderness  would  compen- 
sate for  the  want  of  the  whole  thousand.  Tlicre  is  a 
fnink  confession  for  thee  !  I  am  confounded  at  my  own 
temerity  in  making  it.  Will  it  not  injure  me  in  thy 
esteem  ?  and,  of  all  evils  which  it  is  possible  for  me  to 
suffer,  the  loss  of  that  esteem  would  soonest  drive  me  to 
desperation. 

The  world  has  been  liberal  of  its  censure,  but  surely 
a  thorough  knowledge  of  my  conduct  could  not  condemn 
me.  When  my  father  and  mother  united  their  entreaties 
to  those  of  Talbot,  my  heart  had  never  known  a  prefer- 
ence. The  man  of  their  choice  was  perfectly  indifferent 


JANE    TALBOT.  55 

to  me,  but  every  individual  of  Ms  sex  was  regarded  with 
no  less  indifference.  I  did  not  conceal  from  him  the 
state  of  my  feelings,  but  was  always  perfectly  ingenuous 
and  explicit.  Talbot  acted  like  every  man  in  love.  He 
was  eager  to  secure  me  on  these  terms,  and  fondly  trusted 
to  his  tenderness  and  perseverance  to  gain  those  affec- 
tions which  I  truly  acknowledged  to  be  free.  He  would 
not  leave  me  for  his  European  voyage  till  he  had  extorted 
a  solemn  promise. 

During  his  absence  I  met  you.  The  nature  of  those 
throbs,  which  a  glance  of  your  very  shadow  was  sure 
to  produce,  even  previous  to  the  exchange  of  a  single 
word  between  us,  was  entirely  unknown  to  me.  I  had 
no  experience  to  guide  me.  The  effects  of  that  inter- 
course which  I  took  such  pains  to  procure  could  not  be 
foreseen.  My  heart  was  too  pure  to  admit  even  such  a 
guest  as  apprehension,  and  the  only  information  I  pos- 
sessed respecting  you  impressed  me  with  the  notion  that 
your  heart  already  belonged  to  another. 

I  sought  nothing  but  your  society  and  your  esteem. 
If  the  fetters  of  my  promise  to  Talbot  became  irksome 
after  my  knowledge  of  you,  I  was  unconscious  of  the 
true  cause.  This  promise  never  for  a  moment  lost  its 
obligation  with  me.  I  deemed  myself  as  much  the  wife 
of  Talbot  as  if  I  had  stood  with  him  at  the  altar. 

At  the  prospect  of  his  return,  my  melancholy  was 
excruciating,  but  the  cause  was  unknown  to  me.  I  had 
nothing  to  wish,  with  regard  to  you,  but  to  see  you  occa- 
sionally, to  hear  your  voice,  and  to  be  told  that  you  were 
happy.  It  never  occurred  to  me  that  Talbot's  return 
would  occasion  any  difference  in  this  respect.  Conscious 
of  nothing  but  rectitude  in  my  regard  for  you,  always 
frank  and  ingenuous  in  disclosing  my  feelings,  I  ima- 
gined that  Talbot  would  adopt  you  as  warmly  for  his 
friend  as  I  had  done. 

I  must  grant  that  I  erred  in  this  particular,  but  my 
error  sprung  from  ignorance  unavoidable.  I  judged  of 
others  by  my  own  heart,  and  very  sillily  imagined  that 
Talbot  would  continue  to  be  satisfied  with  that  cold  and 
friendly  regard  for  which  only  my  vows  made  me  an- 
Bwerable.  Yet  my  husband's  jealousies  and  discontents 


56  JANE    TALBOT. 

were  not  unreasonable.  He  loved  me  with  passion; 
and,  if  that  sentiment  can  endure  to  be  unrequited,  it 
will  never  tolerate  the  preference  of  another,  even  if 
that  preference  be  less  than  love. 

In  compliance  with  my  husband's  wishes — Ah !  my 
friend !  why  cannot  I  say  that  I  did  comply  with  them  ? 
what  a  fatal  act  is  that  of  plighting  hands  when  the 
heart  is  estranged!  Never,  never  let  the  placable  and 
compassionate  spirit  be  seduced  into  a  union  to  which 
the  affections  are  averse.  Let  it  not  confide  in  the  after- 
birth of  love.  Such  a  union  is  the  direst  cruelty  even 
to  the  object  who  is  intended  to  be  benefited. 

I  have  not  yet  thoroughly  forgiven  you  for  deserting 
me.  My  heart  swells  with  anguish  at  the  thought  of 
your  setting  more  lightly  by  my  resentment  than  by  that 
of  another ;  of  your  willingness  to  purchase  any  one's 
happiness  at  the  cost  of  mine.  You  are  too  wise,  too 
dispassionate,  by  far.  Don't  despise  me  for  this  accusa- 
tion, Henry ;  you  know  my  unbiassed  judgment  has 
always  been  with  you.  Repeated  proofs  have  convinced 
me  that  my  dignity  and  happiness  are  safer  in  your 
keeping  than  in  my  own. 

You  guess  right,  my  friend.  Miss  Jessup  told  me  of 
your  visits  to  this  poor  sick  woman.  There  is  something 
mysterious  in  the  character  of  this  Polly  Jessup.  She 
is  particularly  solicitous  about  every  thing  which  relates 
to  you.  It  has  occurred  to  me,  since  reading  your  letter, 
that  she  is  not  entirely  without  design  in  her  prattle. 
Something  more,  methinks,  than  the  mere  tattling,  gos- 
siping, inquisitive  propensity  in  the  way  in  which  she  in- 
troduces you  into  conversation. 

She  had  not  alighted  ten  minutes  before  she  ran  into 
my  apartment,  with  a  face  full  of  intelligence.  The  truth 
respecting  the  washwoman  was  very  artfully  disguised, 
and  yet  so  managed  as  to  allow  her  to  elude  the  impu- 
tation of  direct  falsehood.  She  Avill,  no  doubt,  in  this 
as  in  former  cases,  cover  up  all  under  the  appearance  of 
a  good-natured  jest ;  yet,  if  she  be  in  jest,  there  is  more 
of  malice,  I  suspect,  than  of  good  nature  in  her  merriment. 

Make  haste  back,  my  dear  Hal.  I  cannot  bear  to 
keep  my  mother  in  ignorance  of  our  resolutions,  and  I 


JANE   TALBOT.  57 

am  utterly  at  a  loss  in  what  manner  to  communicate  them 
so  as  to  awaken  the  leaftt  reluctance.  Oh,  what  would 
be  wanting  to  my  felicity  if  my  mother  could  be  won 
over  to  my  side  ?  And  is  so  inestimable  a  good  utterly 
hopeless  ?  Come,  my  friend,  and  dictate  such  a  letter  as 
may  subdue  those  prejudices  which,  while  they  continue 
to  exist,  will  permit  me  to  choose  only  among  deplorable 
evils.  JANE  TALBOT. 


LETTER  X. 

To  Jane  Talbot. 

New  York,  October  13. 

I  HAVE  just  heard  something  which  has  made  me  very 
uneasy.  I  am  afraid  of  seeming  to  you  impertinent. 
You  have  declared  your  resolution  to  persist  in  conduct 
which  my  judgment  disapproved.  I  have  argued  with 
you  and  admonished  you,  hitherto,  in  vain,  and  you  have 
(tacitly  indeed)  rejected  my  interference ;  yet  I  cannot 
forbear  offering  you  my  counsel  once  more. 

To  say  truth,  it  is  not  so  much  with  a  view  to  change 
your  resolution,  that  I  now  write,  as  to  be  informed  what 
your  resolution  is.  I  have  heard  what  I  cannot  believe ; 
yet,  considering  your  former  conduct,  I  have  misgivings 
that  I  cannot  subdue.  Strangely  as  you  have  acted  of 
late,  I  am  willing  to  think  you  incapable  of  what  is  laid 
to  your  charge.  In  few  words,  Jane,  they  tell  me  that 
you  mean  to  be  actually  married  to  Golden. 

You  know  what  I  think  of  that  young  man.  You  know 
my  objections  to  the  conduct  you  thought  proper  to  pursue 
in  relation  to  Golden  in  your  husband's  lifetime.  You 
will  judge,  then,  with  what  emotions  such  intelligence  was 
received. 

Indiscreet  as  you  have  been,  there  are,  I  hope,  bounds 
which  your  education  will  not  permit  you  to  pass.  Some 
regard,  I  hope,  you  will  have  for  your  own  reputation. 
If  your  conscience  object  not  to  this  proceeding,  the  dread 
of  infamy,  at  least,  will  check  your  career. 

You  may  think  that  I  speak  harshly,  and  that  I  ought 


58  JANE   TALBOT. 

to  wait,  at  least,  till  I  knew  your  resolution,  before  I 
spoke  of  it  in  such  terms ;  but,  if  this  report  be  ground- 
less, my  censures  cannot  affect  you.  If  it  be  true,  they 
may  serve,  I  hope,  to  deter  you  from  persisting  in  your 
scheme. 

What  more  can  I  say  ?  You  are  my  nearest  relation ; 
not  my  daughter,  it  is  true ;  but,  since  I  have  not  any 
other  kindred,  you  are  more  than  a  daughter  to  me.  That 
love,  which  a  numerous  family  or  kindred  would  divide 
among  themselves,  is  all  collected  and  centred  in  you. 
The  ties  between  us  have  long  ceased  to  be  artificial  ones, 
and  I  feel,  in  all  respects,  as  if  you  actually  owed  your 
being  to  me. 

You  have  hitherto  consulted  my  pleasure  but  little.  I 
have  all  the  rights,  in  regard  to  you,  of  a  mother,  but 
these  have  been  hitherto  despised  or  unacknowledged. 
I  once  regarded  you  as  the  natural  successor  to  my  pro- 
perty ;  and,  though  your  conduct  has  forfeited  these  claims, 
I  now  tell  you  (and  you  know  that  my  word  is  sacred) 
that  all  I  have  shall  be  yours,  on  condition  that  Golden  is 
dismissed. 

More  than  this  I  will  do.  Every  assurance  possible  I 
will  give,  that  all  shall  be  yours  at  my  death,  and  all  I 
have  I  will  share  with  you  equally  while  I  live.  Only 
give  me  your  word  that,  as  soon  as  the  transfer  is  made, 
Golden  shall  be  thought  of  and  conversed  with,  either 
personally  or  by  letter,  no  more.  I  want  only  your  pro- 
mise ;  on  that  I  will  absolutely  rely. 

Mere  lucre  ought  not,  perhaps,  to  influence  you  in  such 
a  case;  and  if  you  comply  through  regard  to  my  peace 
or  your  own  reputation,  I  shall  certainly  esteem  you 
more  highly  than  if  you  are  determined  by  the  present 
offer;  yet  such  is  my  aversion  to  this  alliance,  that  the 
hour  in  which  I  hear  of  your  consent  to  the  conditions 
which  I  now  propose  to  you  will  be  esteemed  one  of  the 
happiest  of  my  life. 

Think  of  it,  my  dear  Jane,  my  friend,  my  child ;  think 
of  it.  Take  time  to  reflect,  and  let  me  have  a  deliberate 
answer,  such  as  will  remove  the  fears  that  at  present 
afflict,  beyond  my  power  of  expression,  your 

H.  FIELDEK. 


JANE   TALBOT.  59 


LETTER  XL 
To  Mrs.  Fielder. 

Philadelphia,  October  15. 

I  HAVE  several  times  taken  up  the  pen,  but  my  distress 
has  compelled  me  to  lay  it  down  again.  Heaven  is  my 
witness  that  the  happiness  of  my  revered  mamma  is  dearer 
to  me  than  my  own;  no  struggle  was  ever  greater  be- 
tween my  duty  to  you  and  the  claims  of  another. 

Will  you  not  permit  me  to  explain  my  conduct?  will 
you  not  acquaint  me  with  the  reasons  of  your  aversion 
to  my  friend  ? — let  me  call  him  by  that  name.  Such,  in- 
deed, has  he  been  to  me, — the  friend  of  my  understand- 
ing and  my  virtue.  My  soul's  friend ;  since,  to  suffer, 
without  guilt,  in  this  world,  entitles  us  to  peace  in  an- 
other, and  since  to  him  I  owe  that  I  have  not  been  a 
guilty  as  well  as  an  unfortunate  creature. 

Whatever  conduct  I  pursue  with  regard  to  him,  I  must 
always  consider  him  in  this  light ;  at  least,  till  your  proofs 
against  him  are  heard.  Let  me  hear  them,  I  beseech 
you.  Have  compassion  on  the  anguish  of  your  poor  girl, 
and  reconcile,  if  possible,  my  duty  to  your  inclination, 
by  stating  what  you  know  to  his  disadvantage.  You 
must  have  causes  for  your  enmity,  which  you  hide  from 
me.  Indeed,  you  tell  me  that  you  have ;  you  say  that 
if  I  knew  them  they  would  determine  me.  Let  then 
every  motive  be  set  aside  through  regard  to  my  happiness, 
and  disclose  to  me  this  secret. 

While  I  am  ignorant  of  these  charges,  while  all  that 
I  know  of  Golden  tends  to  endear  his  happiness  to  me, 
and  while  his  happiness  depends  upon  my  acceptance  of 
his  vows,  can  I,  ought  I,  to  reject  him  ? 

Place  yourself  in  my  situation.  You  once  loved  and 
was  once  beloved.  I  am,  indeed,  your  child.  I  glory 
in  the  name  which  you  have  had  the  goodness  to  bestow 
upon  me.  Think  and  feel  for  your  child,  in  her  present 
unhappy  circumstances ;  in  which  she  does  not  balance 
between  happiness  and  misery, — that  alternative,  alas! 
is  not  permitted, — but  is  anxious  to  discover  which  path 


60  JANE   TALBOT. 

has  fewest  thorns,  and  in  which  her  duty  will  allow  her 
to  walk. 

How  greatly  do  you  humble  me,  and  how  strongly 
evince  your  aversion  to  Golden,  by  offering,  as  the  price 
of  his  rejection,  half  your  property!  How  low  am  I 
fallen  in  your  esteem,  since  you  think  it  possible  for  such 
a  bribe  to  prevail !  and  what  calamities  must  this  alliance 
seem  to  threaten,  since  the  base  selfishness  of  accepting 
this  offer  is  better,  in  your  eyes,  than  my  marriage ! 

Sure  I  never  was  unhappy  till  now.  Pity  me,  my 
mother.  Condescend  to  write  to  me  again,  and,  by  dis- 
closing all  your  objections  to  Golden,  reconcile,  I  earnestly 
entreat  you,  my  duty  to  your  inclination. 

JANE  TALBOT. 


LETTER  XII. 

To  Mrs.  Fielder. 

Philadelphia,  October  17. 

You  will  not  write  to  me.  Your  messenger  assures  me 
that  you  have  cast  me  from  your  thoughts  forever ;  you 
will  speak  to  me  and  see  me  no  more. 

That  must  not  be.  I  am  preparing,  inclement  as  the 
season  is,  to  pay  you  a  visit.  Unless  you  shut  your  door 
against  me  I  will  see  you.  You  will  not  turn  me  out  of 
doors,  I  hope. 

I  will  see  you  and  compel  you  to  answer  me,  and  to 
tell  me  why  you  will  not  admit  my  friend  to  your  good 
opinion.  J.  TALBOT. 


LETTER  XIII. 
To  Jane  Talbot. 

New  York,  October  19. 

You  need  not  come  to  see  me,  Jane.  I  will  not  see  you. 
Lay  me  not  under  the  cruel  necessity  of  shutting  my  door 
against  you,  for  that  must  be  the  consequence  of  your 
attempt. 


JANE    TALBOT.  61 

After  reading  your  letter,  and  seeing  full  proof  of  your 
infatuation,  I  resolved  to  throw  away  my  care  no  longer 
upon  you ;  to  think  no  more  of  you ;  to  act  just  as  if  you 
never  had  existence ;  whenever  it  was  possible,  to  shun 
you  ;  when  I  met  you,  by  chance,  or  perforce,  to  treat  you 
merely  as  a  stranger.  I  write  this  letter  to  acquaint  you 
with  my  resolution.  Your  future  letters  cannot  change 
it,  for  they  shall  all  be  returned  to  you  unopened. 

I  know  you  better  than  to  trust  to  the  appearance  of 
half-yielding  reluctance  which  your  letter  contains.  Thus 
it  has  always  been,  and  as  often  as  this  duteous  strain 
flattered  me  with  hopes  of  winning  you  to  reason,  have 
I  been  deceived  and  disappointed. 

I  trust  to  your  discernment,  your  seeming  humility,  no 
longer.  No  child  are  you  of  mine.  You  have,  hence- 
forth, no  part  in  my  blood ;  and  may  I  very  soon  forget 
that  so  lost  and  betrayed  a  wretch  ever  belonged  to  it ! 

I  charge  you,  write  not  to  me  again.  H.  F. 


LETTER  XIV. 

To  Mrs.  Fielder. 

Philadelphia,  October  24. 

IMPOSSIBLE  !  Are  you  not  my  mother  ? — more  to  me 
than  any  mother  ?  Did  I  not  receive  your  protection  and 
instruction  in  my  infancy  and  my  childhood  ?  When  left 
an  orphan  by  my  own  mother,  your  bosom  was  open  to 
receive  me.  There  was  the  helpless  babe  cherished,  and 
there  was  it  taught  all  that  virtue  which  it  has  since  en- 
deavoured to  preserve  unimpaired  in  every  trial. 

You  must  not  cast  me  off.  You  must  not  hate  me. 
You  must  not  call  me  ungrateful  and  a  wretch.  Not  to 
have  merited  these  names  is  all  that  enables  me  to  endure 
your  displeasure.  As  long  as  that  belief  consoles  me,  my 
heart  will  not  break. 

Yet  that,  even  that,  will  not  much  avail  me.  The  dis- 
tress that  I  now  feel,  that  I  have  felt  ever  since  the  re- 
ceipt of  your  letter,  cannot  be  increased. 


62  JANE   TALBOT. 

You  forbid  me  to  write  to  you ;  but  I  cannot  forbear 
as  long  as  there  is  hope  of  extorting  from  you  the  cause 
of  your  aversion  to  my  friend.  I  solicit  not  this  dis- 
closure with  a  view  or  even  in  the  hope  of  repelling  your 
objections.  I  want,  I  had  almost  said,  I  want  to  share 
your  antipathies.  I  want  only  to  be  justified  in  obeying 
you.  When  known,  they  will,  perhaps,  be  found  suffi- 
cient. I  conjure  you  once  more,  tell  me  your  objections 
to  this  marriage. 

As  well  as  I  can,  I  have  examined  myself.  Passion 
may  influence  me,  but  I  am  unconscious  of  its  influence. 
I  think  I  act  with  no  exclusive  regard  to  my  own  plea- 
sure, but  as  it  flows  from  and  is  dependent  on  the  happi- 
ness of  others. 

If  I  am  mistaken  in  my  notions  of  duty,  God  forbid 
that  I  should  shut  my  ears  against  good  counsel.  Instead 
of  loathing  or  shunning  it,  I  am  anxious  to  hear  it.  I 
know  my  own  short-sighted  folly,  my  slight  experience. 
I  know  how  apt  I  am  to  go  astray,  how  often  my  own 
heart  deceives  me ;  and  hence  I  always  am  in  search  of 
better  knowledge ;  hence  I  listen  to  admonition,  not  only 
with  docility,  but  gratitude.  My  inclination  ought,  per- 
haps, to  be  absolutely  neuter ;  but,  if  I  know  myself,  it  is 
with  reluctance  that  I  withhold  my  assent  from  the  ex- 
postulator.  I  am  delighted  to  receive  conviction  from  the 
arguments  of  those  that  love  me. 

In  this  case,  I  am  prepared.to  hear  and  weigh,  and  be 
convinced  by,  any  thing  you  think  proper  to  urge. 

I  ask  not  pardon  for  my  faults,  nor  compassion  on  my 
frailty.  That  I  love  Golden  I  will  not  deny,  but  I  love 
his  worth ;  his  merits,  real  or  imaginary,  enrapture  my 
soul.  Ideal  his  virtues  may  be,  but  to  me  they  are  real, 
and  the  moment  they  cease  to  be  so,  that  the  illusion  dis- 
appears, I  cease  to  love  him,  or,  at  least,  I  will  do  all 
that  is  in  my  power  to  do.  I  will  forbear  all  intercourse 
or  correspondence  with  him, — for  his  as  well  as  my  own 
sake. 

Tell  me  then,  my  mother,  what  you  know  of  him.  What 
heinous  offence  has  he  committed,  that  makes  him  un- 
worthy of  my  regard? 

You  have  raised,  without  knowing  it  perhaps,  or  de- 


JANE   TALBOT.  63 

signing  to  effect  it  in  this  way,  a  bar  to  this  detested  alli- 
ance. While  you  declare  that  Golden  has  been  guilty  of 
base  actions,  it  is  impossible  to  grant  him  my  esteem  as 
fully  as  a  husband  should  claim.  Till  I  know  what  the 
actions  are  which  you  impute  to  him,  I  never  will  bind 
myself  to  him  by  indissoluble  bands. 

I  have  told  him  this,  and  he  joins  with  me  to  entreat 
you  to  communicate  your  charges  to  me.  He  believes 
that  you  are  misled  by  some  misapprehension, — some 
slander.  He  is  conscious  that  many  of  his  actions  have 
been,  in  some  respects,  ambiguous,  capable  of  being  mis- 
taken by  careless,  or  distant,  or  prejudiced  observers.  He 
believes  that  you  have  been  betrayed  into  some  fatal  error 
in  relation  to  one  action  of  his  life. 

If  this  be  so,  he  wishes  only  to  be  told  his  fault,  and 
will  spare  no  time  and  no  pains  to  remove  your  mistake, 
if  you  should  appear  to  be  mistaken. 

How  easily,  my  good  mamma,  may  the  most  discern- 
ing and  impartial  be  misled !  The  ignorant  and  envious 
have  no  choice  between  truth  and  error.  Their  tale 
must  want  something  to  complete  it,  or  must  possess  more 
than  the  truth  demands.  Something  you  have  heard  of 
my  friend  injurious  to  his  good  name,  and  you  condemn 
him  unheard. 

Yet  this  displeases  me  not.  I  am  not  anxious  for  his 
justification,  but  only  to  know  so  much  as  will  authorize 
me  to  conform  to  your  wishes. 

You  warn  me  against  this  marriage  for  my  own  sake. 
You  think  it  will  be  disastrous  to  me. — The  reasons  of 
this  apprehension  would,  you  think,  appear  just  in  my 
eyes  should  they  be  disclosed,  yet  you  will  not  disclose 
them.  Without  disclosure  I  cannot — as  a  rational  crea- 
ture, I  cannot — change  my  resolution.  If  then  I  marry 
and  the  evil  come  that  is  threatened,  whom  have  I  to 
blame  ?  at  whose  door  must  my  misfortunes  be  laid  if  not 
at  hers  who  had  it  in  her  power  to  prevent  the  evil  and 
would  not? 

Your  treatment  of  me  can  proceed  only  from  your  love ; 
and  yet  all  the  fruits  of  the  direst  enmity  may  grow  out 
of  it.  By  untimely  concealments  may  my  peace  be  for- 
feited forever.  Judge  then  between  your  obligations  to 


64  JANE  TALBOT. 

me,  and  those  of  secrecy,  into  which  you  seem  to  have 
entered  with  another. 

My  happiness,  my  future  conduct,  are  in  your  hand. 
Mould  them,  govern  them,  as  you  think  proper.  I  have 
pointed  out  the  means,  and  once  more  conjure  you,  by 
the  love  which  you  once  bore,  which  you  still  bear,  to  me, 
to  use  them.  JANE  TALBOT. 


LETTER  XV. 

To  Jane  Talbot. 

New  York,  October  27. 

INSOLENT  creature  that  thou  art,  Jane,  and  cunning  as 
insolent !  To  elude  my  just  determination  by  such  an 
artifice !  To  counterfeit  a  strange  hand  in  the  direction 
of  thy  letter,  that  I  might  thereby  be  induced  to  open  it ! 

Thou  wilt  not  rest,  I  see,  till  thou  hast  torn  from  my 
heart  every  root,  every  fibre  of  my  once-cherished  ten- 
derness ;  till  thou  hast  laid  my  head  low  in  the  grave. 
To  number  the  tears  and  the  pangs  which  thy  depravity 

has  already  cost  me but  thy  last  act  is  destined  to 

surpass  all  former  ones. 

Thy  perseverance  in  wickedness,  thy  inflexible  impos- 
ture, amazes  me  beyond  all  utterance.  Thy  effrontery 
in  boasting  of  thy  innocence,  in  calling  this  wretch  thy 
friend,  thy  soul's  friend,  the  means  of  securing  the  fa- 
vour of  a  pure  and  all-seeing  Judge,  exceeds  all  that  I 
supposed  possible  in  human  nature.  And  that  thou,  Jane, 
the  darling  of  my  heart,  and  the  object  of  all  my  care  and 
my  pride,  should  be  this  profligate,  this  obdurate  creature ! 

When  very  young,  you  were  ill  of  a  fever.  The  phy- 
sician gave  up,  for  some  hours,  all  hope  of  your  life.  I 
shall  never  forget  the  grief  which  his  gloomy  silence 
gave  me.  All  that  I  held  dear  in  the  world,  I  then 
thought,  I  would  cheerfully  surrender  tC  save  your  life. 

Poor,  short-sighted  wretch  that  I  was  !  That  event 
which,  had  it  then  happened,  would  perhaps  have  be- 
reaved me  of  reason,  would  have  saved  me  from  a  por- 
tion far  more  bitter.  I  should  have  never  lived  to  wit- 


JAJfE   TALBOT.  65 

ness  the  depravity  of  one  whom  my  whole  life  had  been 
employed  in  training  to  virtue. 

Having  opened  your  letter,  and  somewhat  debated 
with  myself,  I  consented  to  read.  I  will  do  more  than 
read ;  I  will  answer  it  minutely.  I  will  unfold  that 
secret  by  which,  you  truly  think,  my  aversion  to  your 
present  scheme  has  been  chiefly  caused. 

I  have  hitherto  been  silent  through  compassion  to  you ; 
through  the  hope  that  all  might  yet  be  well ;  that  you 
might  be  influenced  by  my  persuasions  to  forbear  an 
action  that  will  insure  forever  your  ruin.  I  now  perceive 
the  folly  of  this  compassion  and  these  hopes.  I  need 
not  be  assiduous  to  spare  you  the  shame  and  mortifica- 
tion of  hearing  the  truth.  Shame  is  as  much  a  stranger 
to  your  heart  as  remorse.  Say  what  I  will,  disclose 
Avhat  I  will,  your  conduct  will  be  just  the  same.  A  show 
of  much  reluctance  and  humility  will,  no  doubt,  be  made, 
and  the  tongue  will  be  busy  in  imploring  favour  which 
the  heart  disdains. 

In  the  foresight  of  this,  I  was  going  to  forbid  your 
writing ;  but  you  care  not  for  my  forbidding.  As  long 
as  you  think  it  possible  to  reconcile  me  to  your  views 
and  make  me  a  partaker  in  your  infamy,  you  will  harass 
me  with  importunity,  with  feigned  penitence  and  prepos- 
terous arguments.  But  one  thing  at  least  is  in  my  power. 
I  can  shun  you,  and  I  can  throw  your  unopened  letters 
into  the  fire ;  and  that,  believe  me,  Jane,  I  shall  do. 

But  I  am  wasting  time.  My  indignation  carries  me 
away  from  my  purpose.  Let  me  return  to  it,  and,  hav- 
ing told  you  all  my  mind,  let  me  dismiss  the  hateful 
subject  forever. 

I  knew  the  motives  that  induced  you  to  marry  Lewis 
Talbot.  They  were  good  ones.  Your  compliance  with 
mine  and  your  father's  wishes  in  that  respect  showed 
that  force  of  understanding  which  I  always  ascribed  to 
you.  Your  previous  reluctance,  your  scruples,  were 
indeed  unworthy  of  you,  but  you  conquered  them,  and 
that  was  better;  perhaps  it  evinced  more  magnanimity 
than  never  to  have  had  them. 

You  were  happy,  I  long  thought,  in  your  union  with 
a  man  of  probity  and  good  sense.  You  may  be  sure  I 
6* 


66  JANE   TALBOT. 

thought  of  you. often,  but  only  with  pleasure.  Certain 
indications  I  early  saw  in  you  of  a  sensibility  that  re- 
quired strict  government;  an  inattention  to  any  thing 
but  feeling;  a  proneness  to  romantic  friendship,  and  a 
pining  after  good  not  consistent  with  our  nature.  I 
imagined  that  I  had  kept  at  a  distance  all  such  books 
and  companions  as  tend  to  produce  this  fantastic  charac- 
ter; and  whence  you  imbibed  this  perverse  spirit,  at 
so  early  an  age,  is,  to  me,  inconceivable.  It  cost  me 
many  a  gloomy  foreboding. 

My  disquiets  increased  as  you  grew  up,  and  that  age 
arrived  when  the  heart  comes  to  be  entangled  with  what 
is  called  love.  I  was  anxious  to  find  for  you  a  man  of 
merit,  to  whose  keeping  your  happiness  might  safely  be 
intrusted.  Talbot  was  such  a  one,  but  the  wayward  heart 
refused  to  love  him.  He  was  not  all  your  fancy  had 
conceived  of  excellent  and  lovely.  He  was  a  mere  man, 
with  the  tastes  and  habits  suitable  and  common  to  his 
education  and  age.  He  was  addicted  to  industry,  was 
regular  and  frugal  in  his  manner  and  economy.  He  had 
nothing  of  that  specious  and  glossy  texture  which  capti- 
vates inexperience  and  youth,  and  serves  as  a  substitute 
for  every  other  virtue.  While  others  talked  about  their 
duty,  he  was  contented  with  performing  it ;  and  he  was 
satisfied  with  ignorance  of  theories  as  long  as  his  prac- 
tice was  faultless. 

He  was  just  such  a  one  as  I  wished  for  the  darling  of 
my  heart;  but  you  thought  not  so.  You  did  not  object 
to  his  age,  though  almost  double  your  own;  to  his  per- 
son or  aspect,  though  they  were  by  no  means  worthy  of 
his  mind ;  to  his  profession  or  condition ;  but  your  heart 
sighed  after  one  who  could  divide  with  you  your  sympa- 
thies; who  saw  every  thing  just  as  you  saw  it;  who 
could  emulate  your  enthusiasm,  and  echo  back  every 
exclamation  which  chance  should  dictate  to  you. 

You  even  pleaded  religion  as  one  of  your  objections. 
Talbot,  it  seems,  had  nothing  that  deserved  to  be  called 
religion.  He  had  never  reasoned  on  the  subject.  He 
had  read  no  books  and  had  never  looked  into  his  Bible 
since  he  was  fifteen  years  old.  He  seldom  went  to 
church  but  because  it  was  the  fashion,  and,  when  there, 


JANE    TALBOT.  67 

seldom  spared  a  thought  from  his  own  temporal  concerns, 
to  a  future  state  and  a  governing  Deity.  All  those  ex- 
pansions of  soul  produced  by  meditation  on  the  power 
and  goodness  of  our  Maker,  and  those  raptures  that  flow 
from  accommodating  all  our  actions  to  his  will,  and  from 
consciousness  of  his  approbation  and  presen6e,  you  dis- 
covered to  be  strangers  to  his  breast,  and  therefore  you 
scrupled  to  unite  your  fate  with  his. 

It  was  not  enough  that  this  man  had  never  been  se- 
duced into  disbelief;  that  his  faith  was  steadfast  and 
rational  without  producing  those  fervours,  and  reveries, 
and  rhapsodies,  which  unfit  us  for  the  mixed  scenes  of 
human  life,  and  breed  in  us  absurd  and  fantastic  notions 
of  our  duty  or  our  happiness ;  that  his  religion  had  pro- 
duced all  its  practical  effects,  in  honest,  regular,  sober, 
and  consistent  conduct. 

You  wanted  a  zealot ;  a  sectary ;  one  that  should  enter 
into  all  the  trifling  distinctions  and  minute  subtleties  that 
make  one  Christian  the  mortal  foe  of  another,  while,  in 
their  social  conduct,  there  is  no  difference  to  be  found 
between  them. 

I  do  not  repeat  these  things  to  upbraid  you  for  what 
you  then  were,  but  merely  to  remind  you  of  the  incon- 
sistency of  these  notions  with  your  subsequent  conduct. 
You  then,  at  the  instance  of  your  father  and  at  my  in- 
stance, gave  them  up;  and  that  compliance,  supposing 
your  scruples  to  have  been  undissembled,  gave  you  a  still 
greater  interest  in  our  affections. 

You  never  gave  me  reason  to  suppose  that  you  re- 
pented of  this  compliance.  I  never  saw  you  after  your 
engagement,  but  you  wore  a  cheerful  countenance ;  at 
least  till  your  unfortunate  connection  with  Golden.  To 
that  connection  must  be  traced  every  misfortune  and 
depravity  that  has  attended  you  since. 

When  I  heard,  from  Patty  Sinclair,  of  his  frequent 
visits  to  you  during  your  retirement  at  Burlington,  I 
thought  of  it  but  little.  He  was,  indeed,  a  new  acquaint- 
ance. You  were  unacquainted  with  his  character  and 
history,  except  so  far  as  you  could  collect  them  from  his 
conversation;  and  no  confidence  could,  of  course,  be 
placed  in  that.  It  was  therefore,  perhaps,  somewhat 


68  JANE    TALBOT. 

indiscreet  to  permit  such  very^  frequent  visits,  such  very 
long  walks.  To  neglect  the  friends  whom  you  lived  with, 
for  the  sake  of  exclusive  conversations  and  lonely  ram- 
bles, noon  and  night,  with  a  mere  stranger, — one  not 
regularly  introduced  to  you, — whose  name  you  were 
obliged  to  inquire  of  himself, — you,  too,  already  a  be- 
trothed woman ;  your  lover  absent ;  yourself  from  home, 
and  merely  on  terms  of  hospitality !  all  this  did  not  look 
well. 

But  the  mischief,  it  was  evident,  was  to  be  known  by 
the  event.  Golden  might  have  probity  and  circumspec- 
tion. He  might  prove  an  agreeable  friend  to  your  future 
husband  and  a  useful  companion  to  yourself.  Kept 
within  due  limits,  your  complacency  for  this  stranger, 
your  attachment  to  his  company,  might  occasion  no  in- 
convenience. How  little  did  I  then  suspect  to  what  ex- 
tremes you  were  capable  of  going,  and  even  then  had 
actually  gone  ! 

The  subject  was  of  sufficient  importance  to  induce  me 
to  write  to  you.  Your  answer  was  not  quite  satisfactory, 
yet,  on  the  whole,  laid  my  apprehensions  at  rest.  I  was 
deceived  by  the  confidence  you  expressed  in  your  own 
caution,  and  the  seeming  readiness  there  was  to  be  governed 
by  my  advice. 

Afterwards,  I  heard,  through  various  channels,  with- 
out any  efforts  on  my  part,  intelligence  of  Golden.  At 
first  I  was  not  much  alarmed.  Golden,  it  is  true,  was 
not  a  faultless  or  steadfast  character.  No  gross  or  enor- 
mous vices  were  ascribed  to  him.  His  habits,  as  far  as 
appearances  enabled  one  to  judge,  were  temperate  and 
chaste.  He  was  contemplative  and  bookish,  and  was 
vaguely  described  as  being  somewhat  visionary  and 
romantic. 

In  all  this  there  was  nothing  formidable.  Such  a  man 
might  surely  be  a  harmless  companion.  Those  with  whom 
he  was  said  to  associate  most  intimately  were  highly 
estimable.  Their  esteem  was  a  test  of  merit  not  to  be 
disposed  or  hastily  rejected. 

Things,  however,  quickly  took  a  new  face.  I  was  in- 
formed that,  after  your  return  to  the  city,  Golden  con- 
tinued to  be  a  very  constant  visitant.  Your  husband's 


.JANE   TALBOT.  69 

voyage  left  you  soon  after  at  liberty,  and  your  inter- 
course with  this  person  only  became  more  intimate  and 
confidential. 

Reflecting  closely  on  this  circumstance,  I  began  to 
suspect  some  danger  lurking  in  your  path.  I  now  re- 
membered that  impetuosity  of  feeling  which  distinguished 
your  early  age;  those  notions  of  kindred  among  souls, 
of  friendship  and  harmony  of  feelings  which,  in  your 
juvenile  age,  you  loved  to  indulge. 

I  reflected  that  the  victory  over  these  chimeras,  which 
you  gained  by  marriage  with  Talbot,  might  be  merely 
temporary ;  and  that,  in  order  to  call  these  dormant  feel- 
ings into  action,  it  was  only  requisite  to  meet  with  one 
contemplative,  bookish,  and  romantic  as  yourself. 

Such  a  one,  it  was  greatly  to  be  feared,  you  had  now 
found  in  this  young  man ;  just  such  qualities  he  was  re- 
ported to  possess,  as  would  render  him  dangerous  to  you 
and  you  dangerous  to  him.  A  poet,  not  in  theory  only, 
but  in  practice ;  accustomed  to  intoxicate  the  women  with 
melodious  flattery;  fond  of  being  intimate;  avowedly 
devoted  to  the  sex ;  eloquent  in  his  encomiums  upon 
female  charms;  and  affecting  to  select  his  friends  only 
from  that  sex. 

What  effect  might  such  a  character  have  upon  your 
peace,  even  without  imputing  any  ill  intention  to  him  ? 
Both  of  you  might  work  your  own  ruin,  while  you  de- 
signed nothing  but  good ;  and  even  supposing  that  your 
intercourse  should  be  harmless,  or  even  beneficial  with 
respect  to  yourselves,  what  was  to  be  feared  for  Talbot? 
An  intimacy  of  this  kind  could  hardly  escape  his  obser- 
vation on  his  return.  It  would  be  criminal,  indeed,  to 
conceal  it  from  him. 

These  apprehensions  were  raised  to  the  highest  pitch 
by  more  accurate  information  of  Colden's  character, 
which  I  afterwards  received.  I  found,  on  inquiring  of 
those  who  had  the  best  means  of  knowing,  that  Golden 
had  imbibed  that  pernicious  philosophy  which  is  now  so 
much  in  vogue.  One  who  knew  him  perfectly,  who  had 
long  been  in  habits  of  the  closest  intimacy  with  him;  who 
was  still  a  familiar  correspondent  of  his,  gave  me  this 
account. 


70  JANE   TALBOT. 

I  met  this  friend  of  Colden's  (Thomson  his  name  is, 
of  whom  I  suppose  you  have  heard  something)  in  this 
city.  His  being  mentioned  as  the  intimate  companion 
of  Golden  made  me  wish  to  see  him,  and  fortunately,  I 
prevailed  upon  him  to  be  very  communicative. 

Thomson  is  an  excellent  young  man :  he  loves  Golden 
much,  and  describes  the  progress  of  his  friend's  opinions 
with  every  mark  of  regret.  He  even  showed  me  letters 
that  had  passed  between  them,  and  in  which  every  horrid 
and  immoral  tenet  was  defended  by  one  and  denied  by 
the  other.  These  letters  showed  Golden  as  the  advocate 
of  suicide;  a  scoffer  at  promises;  the  despiser  of  reve- 
lation, of  Providence  and  a  future  state ;  an  opponent  of 
marriage,  and  as  one  who  denied  (shocking !)  that  any 
thing  but  mere  habit  and  positive  law  stood  in  the  way 
of  marriage,  nay,  of  intercourse  without  marriage,  be- 
tween brother  and  sister,  parent  and  child ! 

You  may  readily  believe  that  I  did  not  credit  such 
things  on  slight  evidence.  I  did  not  rely  on  Thomson's 
mere  words,  solemn  and  unaffected  as  these  were ;  nothing 
but  Colden's  handwriting  could  in  such  a  case,  be  credited. 

To  say  truth,  I  should  not  be  much  surprised  had  I 
heard  of  Golden,  as  of  a  youth  whose  notions  on  moral 
and  religious  topics  were,  in  some  degree,  unsettled ;  that, 
in  the  fervour  and  giddiness  incident  to  his  age,  he  had 
not  tamed  his  mind  to  investigation;  had  not  subdued 
his  heart  to  regular  and  devout  thoughts ;  that  his  passions 
or  his  indolence  had  made  the  truths  of  religion  some- 
what obscure,  and  shut  them  out,  not  properly  from  his 
conviction,  but  only  from  his  attention. 

I  expected  to  find,  united  with  this  vague  and  dubious 
state  of  mind,  tokens  of  the  influence  of  a  pious  educa- 
tion; a  reverence,  at  least,  for  those  sacred  precepts  on 
which  the  happiness  of  men  rests,  and  at  least  a  practical 
observance  of  that  which,  if  not  fully  admitted  by  his 
understanding,  was  yet  very  far  from  having  been  re- 
jected by  it. 

But- widely  and  deplorably  different  was  Colden's  case. 
A  most  fascinating  book*  fell  at  length  into  his  hands, 

*  Godwin's  Political  Justice. 


JANE   TALBOT.  71 

which  changed,  in  a  moment,  the  whole  course  of  his 
ideas.  What  he  had  before  regarded  with  reluctance 
and  terror,  this  book  taught  him  to  admire  and  love.  The 
writer  has  the  art  of  the  grand  deceiver;  the  fatal  art 
of  carrying  the  worst  poison  under  the  name  and  appear- 
ance of  wholesome  food ;  of  disguising  all  that  is  impious, 
or  blasphemous,  or  licentious,  under  the  guise  and  sanctions 
of  virtue. 

Golden  had  lived  before  this  without  examination  or 
inquiry.  His  heart,  his  inclination,  was  perhaps  on  the 
side  of  religion  and  true  virtue ;  but  this  book  carried  all 
his  inclination,  his  zeal,  and  his  enthusiasm,  over  to  the 
adversary ;  and  so  strangely  had  he  been  perverted,  that 
he  held  himself  bound,  he  conceived  it  to  be  his  duty,  to 
vindicate  in  private  and  public,  to  preach  with  vehemence, 
his  new  faith.  The  rage  for  making  converts  seized  him ; 
and  that  Thomson  was  not  won  over  to  the  same  cause 
proceeded  from  no  want  of  industry  in  Golden. 

Such  was  the  man  whom  you  had  admitted  to  your  con- 
fidence; whom  you  had  adopted  for  your  bosom  friend. 
I  knew  your  pretensions  to  religion,  the  stress  which  you 
laid  upon  piety  as  the  basis  of  morals.  I  remembered 
your  objections  to  Talbot  on  this  score,  not  only  as  a 
husband,  but  as  a  friend.  I  could,  therefore,  only  sup- 
pose that  Golden  had  joined  dissimulation  to  his  other 
errors,  and  had  gained  and  kept  your  good  opinion  by 
avowing  sentiments  which  his  heart  secretly  abhorred. 

I  cannot  describe  to  you,  Jane,  my  alarms  upon  this 
discovery.  That  your  cook  had  intended  to  poison  you, 
the  next  meat  which  you  should  eat  in  your  own  house, 
would  have  alarmed  me,  I  assure  you,  much  less.  The 
preservation  of  your  virtue  was  unspeakably  of  more 
importance  in  my  eyes  than  of  your  life. 

I  wrote  to  you :  and  what  was  your  reply  ?  I  could 
scarcely  believe  my  senses.  Every  horrid  foreboding 
realized !  already  such  an  adept  in  this  accursed  sophistry ! 
the  very  cant  of  that  detestable  sect  adopted ! 

I  had  plumed  myself  upon  your  ignorance.  He  had 
taken  advantage  of  that,  I  supposed,  and  had  won  your 
esteem  by  counterfeiting  a  moral  and  pious  strain.  To 
make  you  put  him  forever  at  a  distance,  it  was  needed 


72  JAKE    TALBOT. 

only  to  tear  off  his  mask.  This  was  done,  but,  alas,  too 
late  for  your  safety.  The  poison  was  already  swallowed. 

I  had  no  patience  with  you,  to  listen  to  your  trifling 
and  insidious  distinctions, — such  as,  though  you  could 
audaciously  urge  them  to  me,  possessed  no  weight,  could 
possess  no  weight,  in  your  understanding.  What  was  it 
to  me  whether  he  was  ruffian  or  madman?  whether,  in 
destroying  you,  he  meant  to  destroy  or  to  save  ?  Is  it 
proper  to  expose  your  breast  to  a  sword,  because  the 
wretch  that  wields  it  supposes  madly  that  it  is  a  straw 
which  he  holds  in  his  hand  ? 

But  I  will  not  renew  the  subject.  The  same  motives 
that  induced  me  to  attempt  to  reason  with  you  then  no 
longer  exist.  The  anguish,  the  astonishment,  which  your 
letters,  as  they  gradually  unfolded  your  character,  pro- 
duced in  me,  I  endeavoured  to  show  you  at  the  time.  Now 
I  pass  them  over  to  come  to  a  more  important  circum- 
stance. 

Yet  how  shall  I  tell  it  thee,  Jane?  I  am  afraid  to  in- 
trust it  to  paper.  Thy  fame  is  still  dear  to  me.  I  would 
not  be  the  means  of  irretrievably  blasting  thy  fame.  Yet 
what  may  come  of  relating  some  incidents  on  paper? 

Faint  is  my  hope,  but  I  am  not  Avithout  some  hope, 
that  thou  canst  yet  be  saved,  be  snatched  from  perdition. 
Thy  life  I  value  not,  in  comparison  with  something  higher. 
And  if,  through  an  erring  sensibility,  the  sacrifice  of 
Golden  cost  thee  thy  life,  I  shall  yet  rejoice.  As  the 
wife  of  Golden  thou  wilt  be  worse  than  dead  to  me. 

What  has  come  to  me,  I  wonder?  I  began  this  letter 
with  a  firm,  and,  as  I  thought,  inflexible,  soul.  Despair 
had  made  me  serene;  yet  now  thy  image  rises  before  me 
with  all  those  bewitching  graces  wrhich  adorned  thee  when 
thou  wast  innocent  and  a  child.  All  the  mother  seizes 
my  heart,  and  my  tears  suffocate  me. 

Shall  I  shock,  shall  I  wound  thee,  my  child,  by  lifting 
the  veil  from  thy  misconduct,  behind  which  thou  thinkest 
thou  art  screened  from  every  human  eye  ?  How  little 
dost  thou  imagine  that  I  know  so  much  I 

Now  will  thy  expostulations  and  reasonings  have  an 
end.  Surely  they  will  have  an  end.  Shame  at  last, 
shame  at  last,  will  overwhelm  thee  and  make  thee  dumb. 


JANE    TALBOT.  73 

Yet  my  heart  sorely  misgives  me.  I  shudder  at  the 
extremes  to  which  thy  accursed  seducer  may  have  urged 
thee.  What  thou  hast  failed  in  concealing  thou  mayest 
be  so  obdurately  wicked  as  to  attempt  to  justify. 

Was  it  not  the  unavoidable  result  of  confiding  in  a  man 
avowedly  irreligious  and  immoral ;  of  exposing  thy  under- 
standing and  thy  heart  to  such  stratagems  as  his  philo- 
sophy made  laudable  and  necessary?  But  I  know  not 
what  I  would  say.  I  must  lay  down  the  pen  till  I  can 
reason  myself  into  some  composure.  I  will  write  again 
to-morrow.  H.  FIELDER. 


LETTER  XVI. 

To  the  same. 

0  MY  lost  child !  In  thy  humiliations  at  this  moment  I 
can  sympathize.     The  shame  that  must  follow  the  detec- 
tion of  it  is  more  within  my  thoughts  at  present  than  the 
negligence  or  infatuation  that  occasioned  thy  faults. 

1  know  all.     Thy  intended  husband  knew  it  all.     It 
was  from  him  that  the  horrible  tidings  of  thy  unfaithful- 
ness to  marriage-vows  first  came. 

He  visited  this  city  on  purpose  to  obtain  an  interview 
with  me.  He  entered  my  apartment  with  every  mark  of 
distress.  He  knew  well  the  effect  of  such  tidings  on  my 
heart.  Most  eagerly  would  I  have  laid  down  my  life  to 
preserve  thy  purity  spotless. 

He  demeaned  himself  as  one  who  loved  thee  with  a 
rational  affection,  and  who,  however  deeply  he  deplored 
the  loss  of  thy  love,  accounted  thy  defection  from  virtue 
of  infinitely  greater  moment. 

I  was  willing  to  discredit  even  his  assertion.  Far  better 
it  was  that  the  husband  should  prove  the  defamer  of  his 
wife,  than  that  my  darling  child  should  prove  a  profligate. 
But  he  left  me  no  room  to  doubt,  by  showing  me  a  letter. 

He  showed  it  me  on  condition  of  my  being  everlastingly 
silent  to  you  in  regard  to  its  contents.  He  yielded  to  a 
jealousy  which  would  not  be  conquered,  and  had  gotten 
this  letter  by  surreptitious  means.  He  was  ashamed  of 


74  JANE    TALBOT. 

an  action  which  his  judgment  condemned  as  ignoble  and 
deceitful. 

Far  more  wise  and  considerate  was  this  excellent  and  in- 
jured man  than  I.  He  was  afraid,  by  disclosing  to  you  the 
knowledge  he  had  thus  gained,  of  rendering  you  desperate 
and  hardened.  As  long  as  reputation  was  not  gone,  he 
thought  your  errors  were  retrievable.  He  distrusted  the 
success  of  his  own  efforts,  and  besought  me  to  be  your  guar- 
dian. As  to  himself,  he  resigned  the  hope  of  ever  gain- 
ing your  love,  and  entreated  me  to  exert  myself  for  dis- 
solving your  connection  with  Golden,  merely  for  your 
own  sake. 

To  show  me  the  necessity  of  my  exertions,  he  had  com- 
municated this  letter,  believing  that  my  maternal  interest 
in  your  happiness  would  prevent  me  from  making  any  but 
a  salutary  use  of  it.  Yet  he  had  not  put  your  safety  into 

7  hands  without  a  surety.  He  was  so  fully  persuaded 
the  ill  consequences  of  your  knowing  how  much  was 
known,  that  he  had  given  me  the  proofs  of  your  guilt  only 
on  my  solemn  promise  to  conceal  them  from  you. 

I  saw  the  generosity  and  force  of  his  representations, 
and,  while  I  endeavoured  by  the  most  earnest  remon- 
strances to  break  your  union  with  Golden,  I  suffered  no 
particle  of  the  truth  to  escape  me.  But  you  were  hard 
as  a  rock.  You  would  not  forbid  his  visits,  nor  reject 
his  letters. 

I  need  not  repeat  to  you  what  followed;  by  what  means 
I  endeavoured  to  effect  that  end  which  your  obstinate 
folly  refused. 

When  I  gave  this  promise  to  Talbot,  I  foresaw  not  his 
speedy  death  and  the  consequences  to  Golden  and  your- 
self. I  have  been  affrighted  at  the  rumour  of  your  mar- 
riage ;  and,  to  justify  the  conduct  I  mean  to  pursue,  I 
have  revealed  to  you  what  I  promised  to  conceal  merely 
because  I  foresaw  not  the  present  state  of  your  affairs. 

You  will  not  be  surprised  that,  on  your  marriage  Avith 
this  man,  I  should  withdraw  from  you  what  you  now  hold 
from  my  bounty.  No  faultiness  in  you  shall  induce  me  to 
leave  you  without  the  means  of  decent  subsistence ;  but  I 
owe  no  benevolence  to  Golden.  'My  duty  will  not  permit 
me  to  give  any  thing  to  your  paramour.  When  you  change 


JANE   TALBOT.  75 

your  name  you  must  change  your  -habitation  and  leave 
behind  you  whatever  you  found. 

Think  not,  Jane,  that  I  cease  to  love  thee.  I  am  not  so 
inhuman  as  to  refuse  my  forgiveness  to  a  penitent ;  yet  I 
ask  not  thy  penitence  to  insure  thee  my  affection.  I  have 
told  thee  my  conditions,  and  adhere  to  them  still. 

To  preclude  all  bickerings  and  cavils,  I  enclose  the 
letter  which  attests  your  fall.  H.  FIELDER. 


LETTER  XVII. 

(ENCLOSED  LETTER.) 

To  Henry  Golden. 

Tuesday  Morning. 

You  went  away  this  morning  before  I  was  awake.  I 
think  you  might  have  stayed  to  breakfast ;  yet,  on  second 
thoughts,  your  early  departure  was  best.  Perhaps  it 
was  so. 

You  have  made  me  very  thoughtful  to-day.  What 
passed  last  night  has  left  my  mind  at  no  liberty  to  read 
and  to  scribble  as  I  used  to  do.  How  your  omens  made 
me  shudder ! 

I  want  to  see  you.  Can't  you  come  again  this  evening  ? 
but  no ;  you  must  not.  I  must  not  be  an  encroacher.  I 
must  judge  of  others,  and  of  their  claims  upon  your  com- 
pany, by  myself  and  my  own  claims.  Yet  I  should  be 
glad  to  see  that  creature  who  would  dare  to  enter  into 
competition  with  me. 

But  I  may  as  well  hold  my  peace.  My  rights  will  not 
be  admitted  by  others.  Indeed,  no  soul  but  yourself  can 
know  them  in  all  their  extent,  and,  what  is  all  I  care  for, 
you  are  far  from  being  strictly  just  to  me! 

Don't  be  angry,  Hal.  Skip  the  last  couple  of  sen- 
tences, or  think  of  them  as  not  mine:  I  disown  them. 
To-morrow,  at  six,  the  fire  shall  be  stirred,  the  candles 
lighted,  and  the  sofa  placed  in  order  due.  I  shall  be  at 
home  to  nobody ;  mind  that. 

I  am  loath  to  mention  one  thing,  however,  but  I  must. 
Though  nothing  be  due  to  the  absent  man,  someivhat  is 


76  JANE   TALBOT. 

due  to  myself.  I  have  been  excessively  uneasy  the  whole 
day.  I  am  terrified  at  certain  consequences.  What  may 

not  happen  if No;  the  last  night's  scene  must  not  be 

repeated;  at  least  for  a  month  to  come.  The  sweet  ob- 
livion of  the  future  and  past  lasted  only  for  the  night. 
Now  I  have  leisure  to  look  forward,  and  am  resolved  (don't 
laugh  at  my  resolves;  I  am  quite  in  earnest)  to  keep  thee. 
at  a  distance  for  at  least  a  fortnight  to  come.  It  shall  bt 
a  whole  month  if  thou  dost  not  submit  with  a  good  grace. 

JANE  TALBOT. 


LETTER  XVIII. 

To  Mr.  Henry  Golden. 

New  York,  October  22. 

SIK:— 

I  address  myself  to  you  as  the  mother  of  an  unhappy 
girl  who  has  put  herself  into  your  power.  But  I  write 
not  to  upbraid  you  or  indulge  my  own  indignation,  but 
merely  to  beseech  your  compassion  for  her  whom  you 
profess  to  love. 

I  cannot  apologize  for  the  manner  in  which  I  have  acted 
in  regard  to  your  connection  with  Jane  Talbot.  In  that 
respect,  I  must  take  to  myself  all  the  blame  you  may 
choose  to  impute  to  me. 

I  call  not  into  question  the  disinterestedness  of  your  in- 
tentions in  proposing  marriage  to  this  woman  ;  nor,  if  the 
information  which  I  am  going  to  give  you  should  possess 
any  influence,  shall  I  ascribe  that  influence  to  any  thing 
but  a  commendable  attention  to  your  true  interest,  and  a 
generous  regard  to  the  welfare  of  my  daughter. 

Be  it  known  to  you  then,  sir,  that  Mrs.  Talbot  pos- 
sesses no  fortune  in  her  own  right.  Her  present  dwell- 
ing, and  her  chief  means  of  subsistence,  are  derived  from 
me:  she  holds  them  at  my  option;  and  they  will  be 
instantly  and  entirely  withdrawn,  on  her  marriage  with 
you. 

You  cannot  be  unacquainted  with  the  habits  and  views 
in  which  my  daughter  has  been  educated.  Her  life  has 


JANE    TALBOT.  77 

in  ease  and  luxury,  and  you  cannot  but  perceive 
the  effect  of  any  material  change  in  her  way  of  life. 

It  would  be  a  wretched  artifice  to  pretend  to  any  par- 
ticular esteem  for  you,  or  to  attempt  to  persuade  you  that 
any  part  of  this  letter  is  dictated  by  any  regard  to  your 
interest,  except  as  that  is  subservient  to  the  interest  of 
one  whom  I  can  never  cease  to  love. 

Yet  I  ardently  hope  that  this  circumstance  may  not 
hinder  you  from  accepting  bills  upon  London  to  the 
amount  of  three  hundred  pounds  sterling.  They  shall 
be  put  into  your  hands  the  moment  I  am  properly  assured 
that  you  have  engaged  your  passage  to  Europe  and  are 
determined  to  be  nothing  more  than  a  distant  well-wisher 
to  my  daughter. 

I  am  anxious  that  you  should  draw,  from  the  terms  of 
this  offer,  proof  of  that  confidence  in  your  word  which  you 
might  not  perhaps  have  expected  from  my  conduct  towards 
you  in  other  respects.  Indeed,  my  conscience  acquits 
me  of  any  design  to  injure  you.  On  the  contrary,  it 
would  give  me  sincere  pleasure  to  hear  of  your  success 
in  every  laudable  pursuit. 

I  know  your  talents  and  the  direction  which  they  have 
hitherto  received.  I  know  that  London  is  a  theatre  best 
adapted  to  the  lucrative  display  of  those  talents,  and  that 
the  sum  I  offer  will  be  an  ample  fund,  till  your  own  exer- 
tions may  be  turned  to  account. 

If  this  offer  be  accepted,  I  shall  not  only  hold  myself 
everlastingly  obliged  to  you,  but  I  shall  grant  you  a  higher 
place  in  my  esteem.  Yet,  through  deference  to  scruples 
which  you  may  possibly  possess,  I  most  cheerfully  plight 
to  you  my  honour,  that  this  transaction  shall  be  concealed 
from  Mrs.  Talbot  and  from  all  the  world. 

Though  property  is  necessary  to  our  happiness,  and 
my  daughter's  habits  render  the  continuance  of  former 
indulgences  necessary  to  her  content,  I  will  not  be  so  un- 
just to  her  as  to  imagine  that  this  is  all  which  she  regards. 
Respect  from  the  world,  and  the  attachment  of  her  an- 
cient friends,  are,  also,  of  some  value  in  her  eyes.  Re- 
flect, sir,  I  beseech  you,  whether  you  are  qualified  to  com- 
pensate her  for  the  loss  of  property,  of  good  name, — my 
own  justification,  in  case  she  marries  you,  will  require  me 


78  JANE   TALBOT. 

to  be  nothing  more  than  just  to  her, — and  of  all  her  an- 
cient friends,  who  will  abhor  in  her  the  faithless  wife  and 
the  ungrateful  child.  I  need  not  inform  you  that  your 
family  will  never  receive  into  their  bosom  one  whom  her 
own  kindred  have  rejected.  I  am,  &c. 

H.  FIELDER. 


LETTER  XIX. 
To  Mrs.  Fielder. 

Philadelphia,  October  28. 

I  NEED  not  hesitate  a  moment  to  answer  this  letter.  I 
will  be  all  that  my  revered  mamma  wishes  me  to  be.  I 
have  vowed  an  eternal  separation  from  Golden ;  and,  to 
enable  me  to  keep  this  vow,  I  entreat  you  to  permit  me 
to  come  to  you. 

I  will  leave  this  house  in  anybody's  care  you  direct. 
My  Molly  and  the  boy  Tom  I  shall  find  it  no  easy  task 
to  part  with ;  but  I  will,  nevertheless,  send  the  former 
to  her  mother,  who  is  thrifty  and  well  to  live.  I  beg  you 
to  permit  me  to  bring  the  boy  with  me.  I  wait  your 
answer.  JANE  TALBOT. 


LETTER  XX. 

To  Henry  Golden. 

Philadelphia,  October  28. 

0  MY  friend !  Where  are  you  at  this  trying  moment  ? 
Why  did  you  desert  me?  Now,  if  ever,  does  my  feeble 
heart  stand  in  need  of  your  counsel  and  courage. 

Did  I  ever  lean  these  throbbing  brows  against  your  arm 
and  pour  my  tears  into  your  bosom,  that  I  was  not  com- 
forted ?  Never  did  that  adored  voice  fail  to  whisper  sweet 
peace  to  my  soul.  In  every  storm,  thy  calmer  and  more 
strenuous  spirit  has  provided  me  the  means  of  safety. 
But  now  I  look  around  for  my  stay,  my  monitor,  my  en- 
courager,  in  vain. 


JANE    TALBOT.  79 

You  will  make  haste  to  despatch  the  business  that  de- 
tains you.  You  will  return,  and  fly,  on  the  Avings  of  love, 
to  thy  Jane.  Alas !  she  will  not  be  found.  She  will  have 
fled  far  away,  and  in  her  stead  will  she  leave  this  sullen 
messenger  to  tell  thee  that  thy  Jane  has  parted  from  thee 
forever ! 

Do  not  upbraid  me,  Hal.  Do  not  call  me  ungrateful  or 
rash.  Indeed,  I  shall  not  be  able  to  bear  thy  reproaches. 
I  know  they  will  kill  me  quite. 

And  don't  expostulate  with  me.  Confirm  me  rather  in 
my  new  resolution.  Even  if  you  think  it  cruel  or  absurd, 
aver  that  it  is  just.  Persuade  me  that  I  have  done  my 
duty  to  my  mother,  and  assure  me  of  your  cheerful  ac- 
quiescence. 

Too  late  is  it  now,  even  if  I  would,  to  recall  my  pro- 
mise. 

I  have  promised  to  part  with  you.  In  the  first  tumult 
of  my  soul,  on  receiving  the  enclosed  letters,  I  wrote  an 
answer,  assuring  Mrs.  Fielder  of  my  absolute  concurrence 
with  her  will. 

Already  does  my  heart,  calling  up  thy  beloved  image ; 
reflecting  on  the  immense  debt  which  I  owe  to  your  gene- 
rosity, on  the  disappointment  which  the  tidings  of  my 
journey  will  give  you;  already  do  I  repent  of  my  precipi- 
tation. 

I  have  sought  repose,  but  I  find  it  not.  My  pilloAV  is 
moist  with  the  bitterest  tears  that  I  ever  shed.  To  give 
vent  to  my  swelling  heart,  I  write  to  you;  but  I  must 
now  stop.  All  my  former  self  is  coming  back  upon  me, 
and,  while  I  think  of  you  as  of  my  true  and  only  friend, 
I  shall  be  unable  to  persist.  I  will  not  part  with  thee,  my 
friend.  I  cannot  do  it.  Has  not  my  life  been  solemnly 
devoted  to  compensate  thee  for  thy  unmerited  love  ?  For 
the  crosses  and  vexations  thou  hast  endured  for  my  sake  ? 

Why  shall  I  forsake  thee  ?  To  gratify  a  wayward  and 
groundless  prejudice.  To  purchase  the  short-lived  and 
dubious  affection  of  one  who  loves  me  in  proportion  as 
I  am  blind  to  thy  merit ;  as  I  forget  thy  benefits ;  as  I 
countenance  the  envy  and  slander  that  pursue  thee. 

Yet  what  shall  I  bring  to  thy  arms  ?  A  blasted  repu- 
tation, poverty,  contempt,  the  indignation  of  mine  and  of 


30  JANE    TALBOT. 

tliy  friends.  For  thou  art  poor,  and  so  am  I.  Thy  kin- 
dred have  antipathies  for  me  as  strong  as  those  that  are 
fostered  against  thyself JANE  TALBOT. 


LETTER  XXL 

To  Henry  Golden. 

October  28,  Evening. 

I  WILL  struggle  for  sufficient  composure  to  finish  this 
letter.  I  have  spent  the  day  in  reflection,  and  am  now, 
I  hope,  calm  enough  to  review  this  most  horrid  and  in- 
explicable charge. 

Look,  rny  friend,  at  the  letter  she  has  sent  me.  It  is 
my  handwriting, — the  very  same  which  I  have  so  often 
mentioned  to  you  as  having  been,  after  so  unaccountable 
a  manner,  mislaid. 

I  wrote  some  part  of  it,  alone,  in  my  own  parlour.  You 
recollect  the  time; — the  day  after  that  night  which  a 
heavy  storm  of  rain  and  my  fatal  importunity  prevailed 
on  you  to  spend  under  this  roof. 

Mark  the  deplorable  consequences  of  an  act  which  the 
coldest  charity  would  not  have  declined.  On  such  a  night 
I  would  have  opened  my  doors  to  my  worst  enemy.  Yet 
because  I  turned  not  forth  my  best  friend  on  such  a  night, 
see  to  what  a  foul  accusation  I  have  exposed  myself. 

I  had  not  finished,  but  it  came  into  my  mind  that 
something  in  that  which  I  had  a  little  before  received 
from  you  might  be  seasonably  noticed  before  I  shut  up 
my  billet.  So  I  left  my  paper  on  the  table,  open,  while 
I  ran  up-stairs  to  get  your  letter,  which  I  had  left  in  a 
drawer  in  my  chamber. 

While  turning  over  clothes  and  papers,  I  heard  the 
street-door  open  and  some  one  enter.  This  did  not  hin- 
der me  from  continuing  my  search.  I  thought  it  was 
my  gossiping  neighbour,  Miss  Jessup,  and  had  some 
hopes  that,  finding  no  one  in  the  parlour,  she  would 
withdraw  with  as  little  ceremony  as  she  entered. 

My  search  was  longer  than  I  expected;  but,  finding 


JANE   TALBOT.  81 

it  at  last,  down  I  went,  fully  expecting  to  find  a  visitant, 
not  having  heard  any  steps  returning  to  the  door. 

But  no  visitant  was  there,  and  the  paper  was  gone ! 
I  was  surprised,  and  a  little  alarmed.  You  know  my 
childish  apprehensions  of  robbers. 

I  called  up  Molly,  who  was  singing  at  her  work  in  the 
kitchen.  She  had  heard  the  street-door  open  and  shut, 
and  footsteps  overhead,  but  she  imagined  them  to  be 
mine.  A  little  heavier,  too,  she  recollected  them  to  be, 
than  mine.  She  likewise  heard  a  sound  as  if  the  door 
had  been  opened  and  shut  softly.  It  thus  appeared  that 
my  unknown  visitant  had  hastily  and  secretly  withdrawn, 
and  my  paper  had  disappeared. 

I  was  confounded  at  this  incident.  Who  it  was  that 
could  thus  purloin  an  unfinished  letter  and  retire  in  order 
to  conceal  the  theft,  I  could  not  imagine.  Nothing  else 
had  been  displaced.  It  was  no  ordinary  thief, — no 
sordid  villain. 

For  a  time,  I  thought  perhaps  it  might  be  some  face- 
tious body,  who  expected  to  find  amusement  in  puzzling 
or  alarming  me.  Yet  I  was  not  alarmed:  for  what  had 
I  to  fear  or  to  conceal  ?  The  contents  were  perfectly 
harmless;  and,  being  fully  satisfied  with  the  purity  of 
my  own  thoughts,  I  never  dreamed  of  any  construction 
being  put  on  them,  injurious  to  me. 

I  soon  ceased  to  think  of  this  occurrence.  I  had  no 
cause,  as  I  then  thought,  to  be  anxious  about  conse- 
quences. The  place  of  the  lost  letter  was  easily  sup- 
plied by  my  loquacious  pen,  and  I  came  at  last  to  con- 
jecture that  I  had  carelessly  whisked  it  into  the  fire,  and 
that  the  visitant  had  been  induced  to  withdraw,  by  find- 
ing the  apartment  empty.  Yet  I  never  discovered  any 
one  who  had  come  in  and  gone  out  in  this  manner.  Miss 
Jessup,  whom  I  questioned  afterwards,  had  spent  that 
day  elsewhere.  And  now,  when  the  letter  and  its  con- 
tents were  almost  forgotten,  does  it  appear  before  me, 
and  is  offered  in  proof  of  this  dreadful  charge. 

After  reading  my  mother's  letter,  I  opened  with  trem- 
bling hand  that  which  was  enclosed.  I  instantly  recog- 
nised the  long-lost  billet.  All  of  it  appeared,  on  the 
first  perusal,  to  be  mine.  Even  the  last  mysterious  para- 


»2  JANE   TALBOT. 

graph  was  acknowledged  by  my  senses.  In  the  first 
confusion  of  my  mind,  I  knew  not  what  to  believe  or 
reject ;  niy  thoughts  were  wandering,  and  my  repeated 
efforts  had  no  influence  in  restoring  them  to  order. 

Methinks  I  then  felt  as  I  should  have  felt  if  the 
charge  had  been  true.  I  shuddered  as  if  to  look  back 
would  only  furnish  me  with  proofs  of  a  guilt  of  which 
I  had  not  hitherto  been  conscious, — proofs  that  had 
merely  escaped  remembrance,  or  had  failed  to  produce 
their  due  effect,  from  some  infatuation  of  mind. 

When  the  first  horror  and  amazement  were  passed, 
and  I  took  up  the  letter  and  pondered  on  it  once  more, 
I  caught  a  glimpse  suddenly;  suspicion  darted  all  at 
once  into  my  mind ;  I  strove  to  recollect  the  circum- 
stances attending  the  writing  of  this  billet. 

Yes;  it  was  clear.  As  distinctly  as  if  it  were  the 
work  of  yesterday,  did  I  now  remember  that  I  stopped 
at  the  words  nobody;  mind  that.  The  following  sen- 
tences are  strange  to  me.  The  character  is  similar  to 
what  precedes,  but  the  words  were  never  penned  by  me. 

And  could  Talbot — Yet  what  end  ?  a  fraud  so — Ah  ! 
let  me  not  suspect  my  husband  of  such  a  fraud.  Let 
me  not  have  reason  to  abhor  his  memory. 

I  fondly  imagined  that  with  his  life  my  causes  of  dis- 
quiet were  at  an  end ;  yet  now  are  my  eyes  open  to  an 
endless  series  of  calamities  and  humiliations  which  his 
decease  had  made  sure. 

I  cannot  escape  from  them.  There  is  no  help  for 
me.  I  cannot  disprove.  What  testimony  can  I  bring 
to  establish  my  innocence, — to  prove  that  another  hand 
has  added  these  detestable  confessions  ? 

True  it  is,  you  passed  that  night  under  my  roof. 
Where  was  my  caution?  You,  Henry,  knew  mankind 
better  than  I :  why  did  you  not  repel  my  importunities, 
and  leave  me  in  spite  of  my  urgencies  for  your  stay? 

Poor,  thoughtless  wretch  that  I  was,  not  to  be  aware  of 
the  indecorum  of  allowing  one  of  your  sex,  not  allied  to 
me  by  kindred, — I,  too,  alone,  without  any  companion 
but  a  servant, — to  pass  the  night  in  the  same  habitation ! 

What  is  genuine  of  this  note  acknowledges  your  hav- 
ing lodged  here.  Thus  much  I  cannot  and  need  not 


JANE    TALBOT.  83 

deny:  yet  how  shall  I  make  those  distinctions  visible  to 
Mrs.  Fielder  ?  how  shall  I  point  out  that  spot  in  my  billet 
where  the  forgery  begins  ?  and  at  whose  expense  must  I 
vindicate  myself?  Better  incur  the  last  degree  of  in- 
famy myself,  since  it  will  not  be  deserved,  than  to  load 
him  that  has  gone  with  reproach.  Talbot  sleeps,  I  hope, 
in  peace;  and  let  me  not,  for  any  selfish  or  transitory 
good,  molest  his  ashes.  Shall  I  not  be  contented  with 
the  approbation  of  a  pure  and  all-seeing  Judge? 

But,  if  I  would  vindicate  myself,  I  have  not  the 
power ;  I  have  forfeited  my  credit  with  my  mother. 
With  her  my  word  will  be  of  no  weight;  surely  it 
ought  to  weigh  nothing.  Against  evidence  of  this  kind, 
communicated  by  a  husband,  shall  the  wild  and  impro- 
bable assertion  of  the  criminal  be  suffered  to  prevail  ?  I 
have  only  my  assertion  to  offer. 

Yet,  my  good  God!  in  what  a  maze  hast  thou  per- 
mitted my  unhappy  feet  to  be  entangled !  With  inten- 
tions void  of  blame,  have  I  been  pursued  by  all  the  con- 
sequences of  the  most  atrocious  guilt. 

In  an  evil  hour,  Henry,  was  it  that  I  saw  thee  first. 
What  endless  perplexities  have  beset  me  since  that  dis- 
astrous moment !  I  cannot  pray  for  their  termination, 
for  prayer  implies  hope. 

For  thy  sake,  (God  is  my  witness,)  more  than  for  my 
own,  have  I  determined  to  be  no  longer  thine.  I  hereby 
solemnly  absolve  you  from  all  engagements  to  me.  I 
command  you,  I  beseech  you,  not  to  cast  away  a  thought 
on  the  ill-fated  Jane.  Seek  a  more  worthy  companion, 
and  be  happy. 

Perhaps  you  will  feel,  not  pity,  but  displeasure,  in 
receiving  this  letter.  You  will  not  deign  to  answer  me, 
perhaps,  or  will  answer  me  with  sharp  rebuke.  I  have 
only  lived  to  trouble  your  peace,  and  have  no  claim  to 
your  forbearance ;  yet  methinks  I  would  be  spared  the 
misery  of  hearing  your  reproaches,  re-echoed  as  they 
will  be  by  my  own  conscience.  I  fear  they  will  but 
the  more  unfit  me  for  the  part  that  I  wish  henceforth 
to  act. 

I  would  carry,  if  possible,  to  Mrs.  Fielder's  presence 
a  cheerful  aspect.  I  would  be  to  her  that  companion 


84  JANE   TALBOT. 

which  I  was  in  my  brighter  days.  To  study  her  happi- 
ness shall  be  henceforth  my  only  office;  but  this,  unless 
I  can  conceal  from  her  an  aching  heart,  I  shall  be  unable 
to  do.  Let  me  not  carry  with  me  the  insupportable 
weight  of  your  reproaches.  JANE  TALBOT. 


LETTER  XXII. 

To  Jane  Talbot. 

Baltimore,  October  31. 

You  had  reason  to  fear  my  reproaches ;  yet  you  have 
strangely  erred  in  imagining  the  cause  for  which  I  should 
blame  you.  You  are  never  tired,  my  good  friend,  of 
humbling  me  by  injurious  suppositions. 

I  do,  indeed,  reproach  you  for  conduct  that  is  rash ; 
unjust;  hurtful  to  yourself,  to  your  mother,  to  me,  to  the 
memory  of  him  who,  whatever  were  his  faults,  has  done 
nothing  to  forfeit  your  reverence. 

You  are  charged  with  the  blackest  guilt  that  can  be 
imputed  to  woman.  To  know  you  guilty  produces  more 
anguish  in  the  mind  of  your  accuser  than  any  other  evil 
could  produce,  and  to  be  convinced  of  your  innocence 
would  be  to  remove  the  chief  cause  of  her  sorrow;  yet 
you  are  contented  to  admit  the  charge;  to  countenance 
her  error  by  your  silence.  By  stating  the  simple  truth, 
circumstantially  and  fully ;  by  adding  earnest  and  pathetic 
assurances  of  your  innocence ;  by  showing  all  the  letters 
that  have  passed  between  us,  the  contents  of  which  will 
show  that  such  guilt  was  impossible;  by  making  your 
girl  bear  witness  to  the  precaution  you  used  on  that  night 
to  preclude  misconstructions,  surely  you  may  hope  to  dis- 
arm her  suspicions. 

But  this  proceeding  has  not  occurred  to  you.  You  have 
mistrusted  the  power  of  truth,  and  even  are  willing  to 
perpetuate  the  error.  And  why  ?  Because  you  will  not 
blast  the  memory  of  the  dead.  The  loss  of  your  own 
reputation,  the  misery  of  your  mother,  whom  your 
imaginary  guilt  makes  miserable,  are  of  less  moment  in 


JANE    TALBOT.  85 

your  eyes  than — what?  Let  not  him,  my  girl,  who 
knows  thee  best,  have  most  reason  to  blush  for  thee. 

Talbot,  you  imagine,  forged  this  calumny.  It  was  a 
wrong  thing,  and  much  unhappiness  has  flowed  from  it. 
This  calumny  you  have  it,  at  length,  in  your  power  to 
refute.  Its  past  effects  cannot  be  recalled;  but  here 
the  evil  may  end,  the  mistake  may  be  cleared  up,  and 
be  hindered  from  destroying  the  future  peace  of  your 
mother. 

Yet  you  forbear  from  tenderness  to  his  memory,  who, 
if  you  are  consistent  with  yourself,  you  must  believe  to 
look  back  on  that  transaction  with  remorse,  to  lament 
every  evil  which  it  has  hitherto  occasioned,  and  to  rejoice 
in  the  means  of  stopping  the  disastrous  series. 

My  happiness  is  just  of  as  little  value.  Your  mother's 
wishes,  though  allowed  to  be  irrational  and  groundless, 
are  to  be  gratified  by  the  disappointment  of  mine,  which 
appear  to  be  just  and  reasonable ;  and,  since  one  must  be 
sacrificed,  that  affection  with  which  you  have  inspired 
me  and  those  benefits  you  confess  to  owe  to  me,  those 
sufferings  believed  by  you  to  have  been  incurred  by  me 
for  your  sake,  do  not,  it  seems,  entitle  me  to  preference. 

On  this  score,  however,  my  good  girl,  set  your  heart 
at  ease.  I  never  assumed  the  merits  you  attributed  to 
me.  I  never  urged  the  claims  you  were  once  so  eager  to 
admit.  I  desire  not  the  preference.  If,  by  abjuring 
me,  your  happiness  could  be  secured ;  if  it  were  possible 
for  you  to  be  that  cheerful  companion  of  your  mother 
which  you  seem  so  greatly  to  wish;  if,  in  her  society, 
you  could  stifle  every  regret,  and  prevent  your  tranquillity 
from  being  invaded  by  self-reproach,  most  gladly  would 
I  persuade  you  to  go  to  her  and  dismiss  me  from  your 
thoughts  forever. 

But  I  know,  Jane,  that  this  cannot  be.  You  never 
will  enjoy  peace  under  your  mother's  roof.  The  sighing 
heart  and  the  saddened  features  will  forever  upbraid  her, 
and  bickering  and  repining  will  mar  every  domestic  scene. 
Your  mother's  aversion  to  me  is  far  from  irreconcilable, 
but  that  which  will  hasten  reconcilement  will  be  marriage. 
You  cannot  forfeit  her  love  as  long  as  you  preserve  your 
integrity;  and  those  scruples  which  no  argument  will 


86  JANE    TALBOT. 

dissipate  will  yield  to  reflection  on  an  evil  (as  she  will 
regard  it)  that  cannot  be  remedied. 

Admitting  me,  in  this  respect,  to  be  mistaken,  your 
mother's  resentment  will  ever  give  you  disquiet.  True ; 
but  will  your  union  with  me  console  you  nothing?  in 
pressing  the  hoped-for  fruit  of  that  union  to  your  breast, 
in  that  tenderness  which  you  will  hourly  receive  from  me, 
will  there  be  nothing  to  compensate  you  for  sorrows  in 
which  there  is  no  remorse,  and  which,  indeed,  will  owe 
their  poignancy  to  the  generosity  of  your  spirit  ? 

You  cannot  unite  yourself  to  me  but  with  some  view 
to  my  happiness.  Will  your  contributing  to  that  happi- 
ness be  nothing? 

Yet  I  cannot  separate  my  felicity  from  yours.  I  can 
enjoy  nothing  at  the  cost  of  your  peace.  In  whatever 
way  you  decide,  may  the  fruit  be  content ! 

I  ask  you  not  for  proofs  of  love,  for  the  sacrifice  of 
others  to  me.  My  happiness  demands  it  not.  It  only 
requires  you  to  seek  your  own  good.  Nothing  but  cease- 
less repinings  can  follow  your  compliance  with  your 
mother's  wishes ;  but  there  is  something  in  jour  power 
to  do.  You  -can  hide  these  repinings  from  her,  by  living 
at  a  distance  from  her.  She  may  know  you  only  through 
the  medium  of  your  letters,  and  these  may  exhibit  the 
brightest,  side  of  things.  She  wants  nothing  but  your 
divorce  from  me,  and  that  may  take  place  without  living 
under  her  roof. 

You  need  not  stay  here.  The  world  is  wide,  and  she 
will  eagerly  consent  to  the  breaking  of  your  shackles  by 
change  of  residence.  Much  and  the  best  part  of  your 
country  you  have  never  seen.  Variety  of  objects  will 
amuse  you,  and  new  faces  and  new  minds  erase  the  deep 
impressions  of  the  past.  Golden  and  his  merits  may 
sink  into  forgetfulness,  or  bo  thought  of  with  no  other 
emotion  than  regret  that  a  being  so  worthless  was  ever 
beloved.  But  I  wander  from  the  true  point.  I  meant 
not  to  introduce  myself  into  this  letter, — self ! — that  vile 
debaser  whom  I  detest  as  my  worst  enemy,  and  who 
assumes  a  thousand  shapes  and  practises  a  thousand  wiles 
to  entice  me  from  the  right  path. 

Ah,  Jane,  could  thy  sagacity  discover  no  other  cause 


JANE   TALBOT.  87 

of  thy  mother's  error  than  Talbot's  fraud  ?  Could  thy 
heart  so  readily  impute  to  him  so  black  a  treachery? 
Such  a  prompt  and  undoubting  conclusion  it  grieves  me 
to  find  thee  capable  of. 

How  much  more  likely  that  Talbot  was  himself  de- 
ceived !  For  it  was  not  by  him  that  thy  unfinished  letter 
was  purloined.  At  that  moment  he  was  probably  some 
thousands  of  miles  distant.  It  was  five  weeks  before 
his  return  from  his  Hamburg  voyage,  when  that  myste- 
rious incident  happened. 

Be  of  good  cheer,  my  sweet  girl.  I  doubt  not  all  will 
be  well.  We  shall  find  the  means  of  detecting  and  de- 
feating this  conspiracy,  and  of  re-establishing  thee  in 
thy  mother's  good  opinion.  At  present,  I  own,  I  do  not 
see  the  means ;  but,  to  say  truth,  my  mind  is  clouded  by 
anxieties,  enfeebled  by  watching  and  fatigue. 

You  know  why  I  came  hither.  I  found  my  friend  in 
a  very  bad  way,  and  have  no  hope  but  that  his  pangs, 
which  must  end  within  a  few  days,  may,  for  his  sake, 
terminate  very  soon.  He  will  not  part  with  me,  and  I 
have  seldom  left  his  chamber  since  I  came. 

Your  letter  has  disturbed  me  much,  and  I  seize  this 
interval,  when  the  sick  man  has  gained  a  respite  from 
his  pain,  to  tell  you  my  thoughts  upon  it.  I  fear  I  have 
not  reasoned  very  clearly.  Some  peevishness,  I  doubt 
not,  has  crept  into  my  style.  I  rely  upon  your  wonted 
goodness  to  excuse  it. 

I  have  much  to  say  upon  this  affecting  subject,  but 
must  take  a  future  opportunity. 

I  also  have  received  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Fielder,  of 
which  I  will  say  no  more,  since  I  send  you  enclosed  that, 
and  my  answer.  I  wish  it  had  come  at  a  time  when  my 
mind  was  more  at  ease,  as  an  immediate  reply  seemed  to 
be  necessary.  Adieu.  HENRY  GOLDEN. 


JANE   TALBOT. 

LETTER  XXIIL 

To  Mrs.  Fielder. 

Baltimore.  November  2. 

MADAM  : — 

It  would  indeed  be  needless  to  apologize  for  your  be-r 
haviour  to  me.  I  not  only  acquit  you  of  any  enmity  to 
me,  but  beg  leave  to  return  you  my  warmest  thanks  for 
the  generous  offers  which  you  have  made  me  in  this  letter. 

I  should  be  grossly  wanting  in  that  love  for  Mrs.  Tal- 
bot  which  you  believe  me  to  possess,  if  I  did  not  partake 
in  that  gratitude  and  reverence  which  she  feels  for  one 
who  has  performed  for  her  every  parental  duty.  The 
esteem  of  the  good  is  only  of  less  value  in  my  eyes  than 
the  approbation  of  my  own  conscience.  There  is  no 
price  which  I  would  not  pay  for  your  good  opinion,  con- 
sistent with  a  just  regard  to  that  of  others  and  to  my  own. 

I  cannot  be  pleased  with  the  information  which  you 
give  me.  For  the  sake  of  my  friend,  I  am  grieved  that 
you  are  determined  to  make  her  marriage  with  me  the 
forfeiture  of  that  provision  which  your  bounty  has  hitherto 
supplied  her. 

Forgive  me  if  I  say  that,  in  exacting  this  forfeiture,  you 
will  not  be  consistent  with  yourself.  On  her  marriage  with 
me,  she  will  stand  in  much  more  need  of  your  bounty  than 
at  present,  and  her  merits,  however  slender  you  may  deem 
them,  will  then  be,  at  least,  not  less  than  they  now  are. 

If  there  were  any  methods  by  which  I  might  be  pre- 
vented from  sharing  in  gifts  bestowed  upon  my  wife,  I 
would  eagerly  concur  in  them. 

I  fully  believe  that  your  motive  in  giving  me  this  timely 
warning  was  a  generous  one.  Yet,  in  justice  to  myself  and 
your  daughter,  I  must  observe  that  the  warning  was  super- 
fluous, since  Jane  never  concealed  from  me  the  true  state 
of  her  affairs,  and  since  I  never  imagined  you  would  honour 
with  your  gifts  a  marriage  contracted  against  your  will. 

Well  do  I  know  the  influence  of  early  indulgences. 
Your  daughter  is  a  strong  example  of  that  influence ;  nor 
will  her  union  with  me,  if  by  that  union  she  forfeit  your 


JANE   TALBOT.  89 

favour,  be  any  thing  more  than  a  choice  among  evils  all 
of  which  are  heavy. 

My  own  education  and  experience  sufficiently  testify  t&e 
importance  of  riches,  and  I  should  be  the  last  to  despise 
or  depreciate  their  value.  Still,  much  as  habit  has  en- 
deared to  me  the  goods  of  fortune,  I  am  far  from  setting 
them  above  all  other  goods. 

You  offer  me  madam,  a  large  alms.  Valuable  to  me 
as  that  sum  is,  and  eagerly  as  I  would  accept  it  in  any 
other  circumstances,  yet  at  present  I  must,  however  re- 
luctantly, decline  it.  A  voyage  to  Europe  and  such  a 
sum,  if  your  daughter's  happiness  were  not  in  question, 
would  be  the  utmost  bound  of  my  wishes. 

Shall  I  be  able  to  compensate  her  ?  you  ask. 

No,  indeed,  madam;  I  am  far  from  deeming  myself 
qualified  to  compensate  her  for  the  loss  of  property,  re- 
putation, and  friends.  I  aspire  to  nothing  but  to  console 
her  under  that  loss,  and  to  husband  as  frugally  as  I  can 
those  few  meagre  remnants  of  happiness  which  shall  be 
left  to  us. 

I  have  seen  your  late  letter  to  her.  I  should  be  less 
than  man  if  I  were  not  greatly  grieved  at  the  contents ;  yet, 
madam,  I  am  not  cast  down  below  the  hope  of  convincing 
you  that  the  charge  made  against  your  daughter  is  false. 
You  could  not  do  otherwise  than  believe  it.  It  is  for  us 
to  show  you  by  what  means  you,  and  probably  Talbot 
himself,  have  been  deceived. 

To  suifer  your  charge  to  pass  for  a  moment  uncontra- 
dicted  would  be  unjust  not  more  to  ourselves  than  to  you. 
The  mere  denial  will  not  and  ought  not  to  change  your 
opinion.  It  may  even  tend  to  raise  higher  the  acrimony 
of  your  aversion  to  me.  It  must  ever  be  irksome  to  a 
generous  spirit  to  deny,  without  the  power  of  disproving ; 
but  a  tacit  admission  of  the  charge  would  be  unworthy 
of  those  who  know  themselves  innocent. 

Beseeching  your  favourable  thoughts,  and  grateful  for 
the  good  which,  but  for  the  interference  of  higher  duties, 
your  heart  would  prompt  you  to  give  and  mine  would  not 
scruple  to  accept,  I  am,  &c.  HENRY  GOLDEN. 

8* 


90  JANE   TALBOT. 


LETTER  XXIV. 

To  Henry  Golden. 

Philadelphia,  Nov.  2. 

AH,  my  friend,  how  mortifying  are  those  proofs  of  thy 
excellence?  How  deep  is  that  debasement  into  which  I 
am  sunk,  when  I  compare  myself  with  thee  ! 

It  cannot  be  want  of  love  that  makes  thee  so  easily 
give  me  up.  My  feeble  and  jealous  heart  is  ever  prone 
to  suspect;  yet  I  ought  at  length  to  be  above  these  un- 
generous surmises. 

My  own  demerits,  my  fickleness,  my  precipitation,  are 
so  great,  and  so  unlike  thy  inflexible  spirit,  that  I  am  ever 
ready  to  impute  to  thee  that  contempt  for  me  which  I 
know  I  so  richly  deserve.  I  am  astonished  that  so  poor 
a  thing  as  I  am,  thus  continually  betraying  her  weakness, 
should  retain  thy  affection ;  yet  at  any  proof  of  coldness 
or  indifference  in  thee  do  I  grow  impatient,  melancholy ; 
a  strange  mixture  of  upbraiding  for  myself,  and  resent- 
ment for  thee,  occupies  my  feelings. 

I  have  read  thy  letter.  I  shuddered  when  I  painted  to 
myself  thy  unhappiness  on  receiving  tidings  of  my  reso- 
lution to  join  my  mother.  I  felt  that  thy  reluctance  to 
part  with  me  would  form  the  strongest  obstacle  to  going ; 
and  yet,  being  convinced  that  I  must  go,  I  wanted  thee 
to  counterfeit  indifference,  to  feign  compliance. 

And  such  a  wayward  heart  is  mine  that,  now  these  as- 
surances of  thy  compliance  have  come  to  hand,  I  am  not 
satisfied  !  The  poor  contriver  wished  to  find  in  thee  an 
affectation  of  indifference.  Her  humanity  would  be  satis- 
fied with  that  appearance ;  but  her  pride  demanded  that 
it  should  be  no  more  than  a  veil,  behind  which  the  in- 
consolable, the  bleeding  heart  should  be  distinctly 
seen. 

You  are  too  much  in  earnest  in  your  equanimity.  You 
study  my  exclusive  happiness  with  too  unimpassioned  a 
soul.  You  are  pleased  when  I  am  pleased ;  but  not,  it 
seems,  the  more  so  from  any  relation  which  my  pleasure 


JANE    TALBOT.  91 

bears  to  you:  no  matter  what  it  is  that  pleases  me,  so  I 
am  but  pleased,  you  are  content. 

I  don't  like  this  oblivion  of  self.  I  want  to  be  essential 
to  your  happiness.  I  want  to  act  with  a  view  to  your  in- 
terests and  wishes, — these  wishes  requiring  my  love  and 
my  company  for  your  own  sake. 

But  I  have  got  into  a  maze  again, — puzzling  myself 
with  intricate  distinctions.  I  can't  be  satisfied  with  tell- 
ing you  that  I  am  not  well,  but  I  must  be  inspecting  with 
these  careful  eyes  into  causes,  and  -labouring  to  tell  you 
of  what  nature  my  malady  is. 

It  has  always  been  so.  I  have  always  found  an  unac- 
countable pleasure  in  dissecting,  as  it  were,  my  heart ;  un- 
covering, one  by  one,  its  many  folds,  and  laying  it  before 
you,  as  a  country  is  shown  in  a  map.  This  voluble  tongue 
and  this  prompt  pen  !  what  volumes  have  I  talked  to  you 
on  that  bewitching  theme, — myself! 

And  yet,  loquacious  as  I  am,  I  never  interrupted  you 
when  you  were  talking.  It  was  always  such  a  favour 
when  these  rigid  fibres  of  yours  relaxed ;  and  yet  I  praise 
myself  for  more  forbearance  than  belongs  to  me.  The 
little  impertinent  has  often  stopped  your  mouth, — at  times 
too  when  your  talk  charmed  her  most ;  but  then  it  was 
not  with  words. 

But  have  I  not  said  this  a  score  of  times  before  ?  and 
why  do  I  indulge  this  prate  now? 

To  say  truth,  I  am  perplexed  and  unhappy.  Your 
letter  has  made  me  so.  My  heart  flutters  too  much  to 
allow  me  to  attend  to  the  subject  of  your  letter.  I  follow 
this  rambling  leader  merely  to  escape  from  more  arduous 
paths,  and  I  send  you  this  scribble  because  I  must  write 
to  you.  Adieu.  JANE  TALBOT. 


LETTER  XXV. 

To  the  Same. 

Nov.  3. 

WHAT  is  it,  my  friend,  that  makes  thy  influence  over  me 
so  absolute  ?  No  resolution  of  mine  can  stand  against 
your  remonstrances.  A  single  word,  a  look,  approving  or 


92  JANE    TALBOT. 

condemning,  transforms  me  into  a  new  creature.  The 
dread  of  having  offended  you  gives  me  the  most  pungent 
distress.  Your  "well  done"  lifts  me  above  all  reproach. 
It  is  only  when  you  are  distant,  when  your  verdict  is  un- 
certain, that  I  shrink  from  contumely, — that  the  scorn  of 
the  world,  though  unmerited,  is  a  load  too  heavy  for  my 
strength. 

Methinks  I  should  be  a  strange  creature  if  left  to  my- 
self. A  very  different  creature,  doubtless,  I  should  have 
been,  if  placed  under  any  other  guidance.  So  easily 
swayed  am  I  by  one  that  is  lord  of  my  affections.  No 
will,  no  reason,  have  I  of  my  own. 

Such  sudden  and  total  transitions !  In  solitude  I  rumi- 
nate and  form  my  schemes.  They  seem  to  me  unalter- 
able :  yet  a  word  from  you  scatters  all  my  laboured  edifices, 
and  I  look  back  upon  my  former  state  of  mind  as  on  some- 
thing that  passed  when  I  was  a  lunatic  or  dreaming. 

It  is  but  a  day  since  I  determined  to  part  with  you, — 
since  a  thousand  tormenting  images  engrossed  my  ima- 
gination: yet  now  am  I  quite  changed;  I  am  bound  to 
you  by  links  stronger  than  ever.  No ;  I  will  not  part 
with  you. 

Yet  how  shall  I  excuse  my  non-compliance  to  my  mo- 
ther? I  have  told  her  that  I  would  come  to  her,  that  I 
waited  only  for  her  directions  as  to  the  disposal  of  her 
property.  What  will  be  her  disappointment  when  I  tell 
her  that  I  will  not  come ! — when  she  finds  me,  in  spite  of 
her  remonstrances,  still  faithful  to  my  engagements  to 
thee! 

Is  there  no  method  of  removing  this  aversion  ?  of  out- 
rooting  this  deadly  prejudice?  And  must  I,  in  giving 
myself  to  thee,  forfeit  her  affection? 

And  now — this  dreadful  charge !  no  wonder  that  her 
affectionate  heart  was  sorely  wounded  by  such  seeming 
proofs  of  my  wickedness. 

I  thought  at  first — shame  upon  my  inconsistent  cha- 
racter, my  incurable  blindness!  I  should  never  have 
doubted  the  truth  of  my  first  thoughts,  if  you  had  not 
helped  me  to  a  more  candid  conjecture.  I  was  unjust 
enough  to  load  him  with  the  guilt  of  this  plot  against 
me,  and  imagined  there  was  duty  in  forbearing  to  detect  it. 


JANE   TALBOT.  9d 

Now,  by  thy  means,  do  I  judge  otherwise.  Yet  how, 
my  friend,  shall  I  unravel  this  mystery?  My  heart  is 
truly  sad.  How  easily  is  my  woman's  courage  lowered, 
and  how  prone  am  I  to  despond  ! . 

Lend  me  thy  aid,  thy  helping  hand,  my  beloved.  De- 
cide and  act  for  me,  and  be  my  weakness  fortified,  my 
hope  restored,  by  thee.  Let  me  lose  all  separate  feel- 
ings, all  separate  existence,  and  let  me  know  no  prin- 
ciple of  action  but  the  decision  of  your  judgment,  no 
motive  or  desire  but  to  please,  to  gratify  you. 

Our  marriage,  you  say,  will  facilitate  reconcilement 
with  my  mother.  Do  you  think  so  ?  Then  let  it  take 
place,  my  dear  Hal.  Heaven  permit  that  marriage  may 
tend  to  reconcile  !  but,  let  it  reconcile  or  not,  if  the  wish 
be  yours  it  shall  occupy  the  chief  place  in  my  heart. 
The  time,  the  manner,  be  it  yours  to  prescribe.  My 
happiness,  on  that  event,  will  surely  want  but  little  to 
complete  it;  and,  if  you  bid  me  not  despair  of  my 
mother's  acquiescence,  I  will  not  despair. 

I  am  to  send  your  letter,  after  reading,  to  my  mother, 
I  suppose.  I  have  read  it,  Hal,  more  than  once.  And 
for  my  sake  thou  declinest  her  oifers  !  When  you  thus 
refuse  no  sacrifice  on  my  account,  shall  I  hesitate  when 
it  becomes  my  turn  ?  Shall  I  ever  want  gratitude, 
thinkest  thou  ?  Shall  I  ever  imagine  that  I  have  done 
enough  to  evince  my  gratitude  ? 

But  how  do  I  forget  thy  present  situation  !  Thy  dying 
friend  has  scarcely  occurred  to  me.  Thy  afflictions,  thy 
fatigues,  are  absorbed  in  my  own  selfish  cares. 

I  am  very  often  on  the  brink  of  hating  myself.  So 
much  thoughtlessness  of  others ;  such  callousness  to  sor- 
rows not  my  own :  my  hard  heart  has  often  reproached 
thec  for  sparing  a  sigh  or  a  wish  from  me;  that  every 
gloom  has  not  been  dispelled  by  my  presence,  was  trea- 
son, forsooth,  against  my  majesty,  and  the  murmurs  that 
delighted  love  should  breathe,  to  welcome  thy  return, 
were  changed  into  half-vindictive  reluctance, — not  quite 
a  frown, —  and  upbraidings,  in  Avhich  tenderness  was 
almost  turned  out  of  door  by  anger. 

In  the  present  case,  for  instance,  I  have  scarcely 
thought  of  thy  dying  friend  once.  How  much  thy  dis- 


94  JANE   TALBOT. 

quiets  would  be  augmented  by  the  letters  which  I  sent 
thee,  never  entered  my  thoughts.  To  hide  our  sorrows 
from  those  who  love  us  seems  to  be  no  more  than  gene- 
rous. Yet  I  never  hid  any  thing  from  thee.  All  was 
uttered  that  was  felt.  I  considered  not  attending  cir- 
cumstances. The  bird,  as  soon  as  it  was  scared,  flew 
into  the  bosom  that  was  nearest,  and,  merely  occupied 
with  dangers  of  its  own,  was  satisfied  to  find  a  refuge 
there. 

And  yet — See  now,  Vanity,  the  cunning  advocate, 
entering  with  his  And  yet.  Would  I  listen  to  him,  what 
a  world  of  palliations  and  apologies  would  he  furnish ! 
How  would  he  remind  me  of  cases  in  which  my  sym- 
pathy was  always  awakened  with  attention  !  How  often 
— But  I  will  not  listen  to  the  flatterer. 

And,  now  I  think  of  it,  Hal,  you  differ  from  me  very 
much  in  that  respect.  Every  mournful  secret  must  be 
wrung  from  you.  You  hoard  up  all  your  evil  thoughts, 
and  brood  over  them  alone.  Nothing  but  earnest  impor- 
tunity ever  got  from  you  any  of  your  griefs. 

Now,  this  is  cruel  to  yourself  and  unjust  to  me.  It  is 
denying  my  claim  to  confidence.  It  is  holding  back  from 
me  a  part  of  yourself.  It  is  setting  light  by  my  sympathy. 

And  yet — the  prater  Vanity  once  more,  you  see :  but 
I  will  let  him  speak  out  this  time.  Here  his  apology  is 
yours,  and  myself  am  only  flattered  indirectly. 

And  yet,  when  I  have  extorted  from  you  any  secret 
sorrow,  you  have  afterwards  acknowledged  that  the  dis- 
closure was  of  use : — that  my  sympathizing  love  was  grate- 
ful to  you,  and  my  counsel  of  some  value ;  that  you  drew 
from  my  conduct  on  those  occasions  new  proofs  of  my 
strength  of  mind,  and  of  my  right — a  right  which  my  affec- 
tion for  you  gave  me — to  share  with  you  all  your  thoughts. 

Yet,  on  the  next  occasion  that  offers,  you  are  sure  to 
relapse  into  your  habitual  taciturnity,  and  my  labours  to 
subdue  it  are  again  to  be  repeated.  I  have  sometimes 
been  tempted  to  retaliate,  and  convince  you,  by  the 
effects  of  my  concealments  upon  you,  of  the  error  of  your 
own  scheme. 

But  I  never  could  persist  in  silence  for  five  minutes 
together.  Shut  up  as  the  temple  of  my  heart  is  to  the 


JANE    TALBOT.  95 

rest  of  mankind,  all  its  doors  fly  open  of  their  own 
accord  when  you  approach. 

Now  am  I  got  into  my  usual  strain ;  in  which  I  could 
persevere  forever.  No  wonder  it  charms  me  so  much, 
since,  while  thus  pursuing  it,  I  lose  all  my  cares  in  a 
sweet  oblivion;  but  I  must  stop  at  last,  and  recall  my 
thoughts  to  a  less  welcome  subject. 

Painful  as  it  is,  I  must  write  to  my  mother.  I  will  do 
it  now,  and  send  you  my  letter.  I  will  endeavour,  here- 
after, to  keep  alive  a  salutary  distrust  of  myself,  and  do 
nothing  without  your  approbation  and  direction.  Such 
submission  becomes  thy  JANE. 


LETTER  XXVI. 
To  Mrs.  Fielder. 

Philadelphia,  November  4. 

I  TREMBLE  thus  to  approach  my  honoured  mother  once 
more,  since  I  cannot  bring  into  her  presence  the  heart  that 
she  wishes  to  find.  Instead  of  acknowledgment  of  faults, 
and  penitence  suitable  to  their  heinous  nature,  I  must 
bring  with  me  a  bosom  free  from  self-reproach,  and  a  con- 
fidence, which  innocence  only  can  give,  that  I  shall  be 
some  time  able  to  disprove  the  charge  brought  against  me. 

Ah,  my  mother !  could  such  guilt  as  this  ever  stain  a 
heart  fashioned  by  your  tenderest  care?  Did  it  never 
occur  to  you  that  possibly  some  mistake  might  have 
misled  the  witness  against  me  ? 

The  letter  which  you  sent  me  is  partly  mine.  All  that 
is  honest  and  laudable  is  mine,  but  that  which  confesses 
dishonour  has  been  added  by  another  hand.  By  whom 
my  handwriting  was  counterfeited,  and  for  what  end,  I 
know  not.  I  cannot  name  any  one  who  deserves  to  be 
suspected. 

I  might  proceed  to  explain  the  circumstances  attend- 
ing the  writing  and  the  loss  of  this  letter,  so  fatal  to  me; 
but  I  forbear  to  attempt  to  justify  myself  by  means 
which,  I  know  beforehand,  will  effect  nothing,  unless  it 
be  to  aggravate,  in  your  eyes,  my  imaginary  guilt. 


96  JANE   TALBOT. 

If  it  were  possible  for  you  to  suspend  your  judgment; 
if  the  most  open,  and  earnest,  and  positive  averments  of 
my  innocence  could  induce  you,  not  to  reverse,  but 
merely  to  postpone,  your  sentence,  you  would  afford  me 
unspeakable  happiness. 

You  tell  me  that  the  loss  of  your  present  bounty  will 
be  the  consequence  of  my  marriage.  My  claims  on  you 
are  long  ago  at  an  end.  Indeed,  I  never  had  any  claims. 
Your  treatment  of  me  has  flown  from  your  unconstrained 
benevolence.  For  what  you  have  given,  for  the  tender- 
ness which  you  continually  bestowed  on  me,  you  have 
received  only  disappointment  and  affliction. 

For  all  your  favours  I  seem  to  you  ungrateful ;  yet  long 
after  that  conduct  was  known  which,  to  you,  proves  my 
unworthiness,  your  protection  has  continued,  and  you  are 
so  good  as  to  assure  me  that  it  shall  not  be  withdrawn  as 
long  as  I  have  no  protector  but  you. 

Dear  as  my  education  has  made  the  indulgences  of  com- 
petence to  me,  I  hope  I  shall  relinquish  them  without  a 
sigh.  Had  you  done  nothing  more  than  screen  my  in- 
fancy and  youth  from  hardship  and  poverty,  than  sup- 
ply the  mere  needs  of  nature,  my  debt  to  you  could 
never  be  paid. 

But  how  much  more  than  this  have  you  done  for  me  ! 
You  have  given  me,  by  your  instructions  and  example, 
an  understanding  and  a  heart.  You  have  taught  me  to 
value  a  fair  fame  beyond  every  thing  but  the  peace  of 
virtue ;  you  have  made  me  capable  of  a  generous  affection 
for  a  benefactor  equal  to  yourself;  capable  of  acting  so 
as  at  once  to  deserve  and  to  lose  your  esteem ;  and  en- 
abled me  to  relinquish  cheerfully  those  comforts  and 
luxuries  which  cannot  be  retained  but  at  the  price  of  my 
integrity. 

I  look  forward  to  poverty  without  dismay.  Perhaps 
I  make  light  of  its  evils  because  I  have  never  tried  them. 
I  am  indeed  a  weak  and  undiscerning  creature.  Yet 
nothing  but  experience  will  correct  my  error,  if  it  be  an 
error. 

So  sanguine  am  I  that  I  even  cherish  the  belief  that 
the  privation  of  much  of  that  ease  which  I  have  hitherto 
enjoyed  will  strengthen  my  mind,  and  somewhat  qualify 


JANE    TALBOT.  97 

me  for  enduring  those  evils  which  I  cannot  expect  always 
to  escape. 

You  know,  my  mother,  that  the  loss  of  my  present 
provision  will  not  leave  me  destitute.  If  it  did,  I  know 
your  generosity  too  well  to  imagine  that  you  would  with- 
draw from  me  all  the  means  of  support. 

Indeed,  my  own  fund,  slender  as  it  is  in  comparison 
with  what  your  bounty  supplies  me,  is  adequate  to  all  my 
personal  wants :  I  am  sure  it  would  prove  so  on  the  trial. 
So  that  I  part  with  your  gifts  with  less  reluctance,  though 
with  no  diminution  of  my  gratitude. 

If  I  could  bring  to  you  my  faith  unbroken,  and  were 
allowed  to  present  to  you  my  friend,  I  would  instantly 
fly  to  your  presence ;  but  that  is  a  felicity  too  great  for 
my  hope.  The  alternative,  however  painful,  must  be 
adopted  by  Your  ever-grateful  JANE. 


LETTER  XXVII. 

To  Mrs.  Talbot. 

Baltimore,  November  5. 

I  HIGHLY  approve  of  your  letter.  It  far  exceeded  the 
expectations  I  had  formed  of  you.  You  are  indeed  a 
surprising  creature. 

One  cannot  fail  to  be  astonished  at  the  differences  of 
human  characters;  at  the  opposite  principles  by  which 
the  judgments  of  men  are  influenced.  , 

Experience,  however,  is  the  antidote  of  wonder.  There 
was  a  time  when  I  should  have  reflected  on  the  sentiments 
of  your  mother  with  a  firm  belief  that  no  human  being 
could  be  practically  influenced  by  them. 

She  offers,  and  surely  with  sincerity,  to  divide  her  large 
property  with  you ;  to  give  away  half  her  estate  during 
her  own  life,  and  while,  indeed,  she  is  yet  in  her  prime : 
and  to  whom  give  it  ?  To  one  who  has  no  natural  relation 
to  her ;  who  is  merely  an  adopted  child ;  who  has  acted 
for  several  years  in  direct  repugnance  to  her  will,  in  a 
manner  she  regards  as  not  only  indiscreet,  but  flagrantly 
criminal.  Whom  one  guilty  act  has  (so  it  must  appear 


98  JANE   TALBOT. 

to  your  mamma)  involved  in  a  continued  series  of  false- 
hoods and  frauds. 

She  offers  this  immense  gift  to  you,  on  no  condition  but 
a  mere  verbal  promise  to  break  off  intercourse  with  the 
man  you  love,  and  with  whom  you  have  been  actually 
criminal. 

She  seems  not  aware  how  easily  promises  are  made 
that  are  not  designed  to  be  performed;  how  absurd  it 
would  be  to  rely  upon  your  integrity  in  this  respect,  when 
you  have  shown  yourself  (so  it  must  appear  to  her)  grossly 
defective  in  others  of  infinitely  greater  moment.  How 
easily  might  a  heart  like  yours  be  persuaded  to  recall  its 
promises,  or  violate  this  condition,  as  soon  as  the  perform- 
ance of  her  contract  has  made  you  independent  of  her 
and  of  the  world ! 

You  promise — it  is  done  in  half  a  dozen  syllables — that 
you  will  see  the  hated  Golden  no  more.  All  that  you 
promise,  you  intend.  To-morrow  she  enriches  you  with 
half  her  fortune.  Next  day  the  seducer  comes,  and  may 
surely  expect  to  prevail  on  you  to  forget  this  promise,  since 
he  has  conquered  your  firmness  in  a  case  of  unspeakably 
greater  importance. 

This  offer  of  hers  surely  indicates  not  only  love  for 
you,  but  reverence  for  your  good  faith  inconsistent  with 
the  horrid  imputation  she  has  urged  against  you. 

As  to  me,  what  a  portrait  does  her  letter  exhibit !  And 
yet  this  scoffer  at  the  obligation  of  a  promise  is  offered 
four  or  five  thousand  dollars  on  condition  that  he  plights 
his  word  to  embark  for  England  and  to  give  up  all  his 
hopes  of  you. 

Villain  as  he  is ;  a  villain  not  by  habit  or  by  passion, 
but  \>y  principle;  a  cool-blooded,  systematic  villain;  yet 
she  will  give  him  affluence  and  the  means  of  depraving 
thousands  by  his  example  and  his  rhetoric,  on  condition 
that  he  refuses  to  marry  the  woman  whom  he  has  made 
an  adulteress;  who  has  imbibed,  from  the  contagion  of 
his  discourse,  all  the  practical  and  speculative  turpitude 
which  he  has  to  impart. 

This  conduct  might  be  considered  only  as  proving  her 
aversion  to  me.  So  strong  is  it  as  to  impel  her  to  in- 
discreet and  self-destructive  expedients ;  and  so  I  should 


JANE    TALBOT.  99 

likewise  reason  if  these  very  expedients  did  not  argue  a 
confidence  in  my  integrity  somewhat  inconsistent  with  the 
censure  passed  on  my  morals. 

After  all,  is  there  not  reason  to  question  the  sincerity 
of  her  hatred?  Is  not  thy  mother  a  dissembler,  Jane? 
Does  she  really  credit  the  charge  she  makes  against  thee? 
Does  she  really  suppose  me  that  insane  philosopher  which 
her  letter  describes? 

Yet  this  is  only  leaping  from  a  ditch  into  a  quicksand. 
It  is  quite  as  hard  to  account  for  her  dissimulation  as  for 
her  sincerity.  Why  should  she  pretend  to  suspect  you 
of  so  black  a  deed,  or  me  of  such  abominable  tenets  ? 

And  yet,  an  observer  might  say,  it  is  one  thing  to  pro- 
mise and  another  to  perform,  in  her  case  as  well  as  in  ours. 
She  tells  us  what  she  will  do,  provided  we  enter  into  such 
engagements ;  but,  if  we  should  embrace  her  offers,  is  it 
certain  that  she  would  not  hesitate,  repent,  and  retract  ? 

Passion  may  dictate  large  and  vehement  offers  upon 
paper,  which  deliberating  prudence  would  never  allow  to 
be  literally  adhered  to. 

Besides,  may  not  these  magnificent  proposals  be  dic- 
tated by  a  knowledge  of  our  characters,  which  assured 
her  that  they  would  never  be  accepted  ?  But,  Avith  this 
belief,  why  should  the  offers  be  made  ? 

The  answer  is  easy.  These  offers,  by  the  kindness  and 
respect  for  us  which  they  manifest,  engage  our  esteem 
and  gratitude,  and,  by  their  magnitude,  show  how  deeply 
she  abhors. this  connection,  and  hence  dispose  us  to  do 
that,  for  pity's  sake,  which  mere  lucre  would  never  re- 
commend. 

And  here  is  a  string  of  guesses  to  amuse  thee,  Jane. 
Their  truth  or  falsehood  is  of  little  moment  to  us,  since 
these  offers  ought  not  to  influence  our  conduct. 

One  thing  is  sure ;  that  is,  thy  mother's  aversion  to 
me.  And  yet  I  ought  not  to  blame  her.  That  I  am  an 
atheist  in  morals,  the  seducer  of  her  daughter,  she  fully 
believes ;  and  these  are  surely  sufficient  objections  to  me. 
Would  she  be  a  discerning  friend  or  virtuous  mother  if 
she  did  not,  with  this  belief,  remonstrate  against  your 
alliance  with  one  so  wicked  ? 

The  fault  lies  not  with  her.     With  whom,  then,  does 


100  JANE   TALBOT. 

it  lie  ?  Or,  what  only  is  important,  where  is  the  remedy  ? 
Expostulation  and  remonstrance  will  avail  nothing.  I 
cannot  be  a  hypocrite :  I  cannot  dissemble  that  I  have 
once  been  criminal,  and  that  I  am,  at  present,  conscious 
of  a  thousand  weaknesses  and  self-distrusts.  There  is 
but  one  meagre  and  equivocal  merit  that  belongs  to  me. 
I  stick  to  the  truth;  yet  this  is  a  virtue  of  late  growth. 
It  has  not  yet  acquired  firmness  to  resist  the  undermining 
waves  of  habit,  or  to  be  motionless  amidst  the  hurricane 
of  passions. 

You  offer  me  yourself.  I  love  you.  Shall  I  not  then 
accept  your  offer?  Shall  my  high  conception  of  your 
merits,  and  my  extreme  contempt  and  distrust  of  myself, 
hinder  me  from  receiving  so  precious  a  boon  ?  Shall  I 
not  make  happy  by  being  happy?  Since  you  value  me 
so  much  beyond  my  merits ;  since  my  faults,  though  fully 
disclosed  to  you,  do  not  abate  your  esteem,  do  not  change 
your  views  in  my  favour,  shall  I  withhold  my  hand  ? 

I  am  not  obdurate.  I  am  not  ungrateful.  With  you 
I  never  was  a  hypocrite.  With  the  rest  of  the  world  I 
have  ceased  to  be  so.  If  I  look  forward  without  con- 
fidence, I  look  back  with  humiliation  and  remorse.  I 
have  always  wished  to  be  good,  but,  till  I  knew  you,  I 
despaired  of  ever  being  so,  and  even  now  my  hopes  are 
perpetually  drooping. 

I  sometimes  question,  especially  since  your  actual 
condition  is  known,  whether  I  should  accept  your  offered 
hand ;  but  mistake  me  not,  my  beloved  creature.  My 
distrust  does  not  arise  from  any  doubts  of  my  own  con- 
stancy. That  I  shall  grow  indifferent  or  forgetful  or 
ungrateful  to  you,  can  never  be. 

All  my  doubts  are  connected  with  you.  Can  I  com- 
pensate you  for  those  losses  which  will  follow  your  mar- 
riage?— the  loss  of  your  mother's  affection, — the  ex- 
change of  all  that  splendour  and  abundance  you  have 
hitherto  enjoyed  for  obscurity  and  indigence  ? 

You  say  I  can.  The  image  of  myself  in  my  own  mind 
is  a  sorry  compound  of  hateful  or  despicable  qualities.  I 
am  even  out  of  humour  with  my  person,  my  face.  So 
absurd  am  I  in  my  estimates  of  merit,  that  my  homely 
features  and  my  scanty  form  had  their  part  in  restraining 


JANE    TALBOT.  101 

me  from  aspiring  to  one  supreme  in  loveliness,  and  in 
causing  the  surprise  that  followed  the  discovery  of  your 
passion. 

In  your  eyes,  however,  this  mind  and  this  person  are 
venerable  and  attractive.  My  affection,  my  company, 
are  chief  goods  with  you.  The  possession  of  all  other 
goods  cannot  save  you  from  misery,  if  this  be  wanting. 
The  loss  of  all  others  will  not  bereave  you  of  happiness 
if  this  be  possessed. 

Fain  would  I  believe  you.  You  decide  but  reasonably. 
Fortune's  goods  ought  not  to  be  so  highly  prized  as  the 
reason  of  many  prizes  them,  and  as  my  habits,  in  spite 
of  reason's  dissent  and  remonstrances,  compel  me  to  prize 
them.  They  contribute  less  to  your  happiness,  and  that 
industry  and  frugality  which  supplies  their  place,  you 
look  upon  without  disgust;  with  even  some  degree  of 
satisfaction. 

Not  so  I:  I  cannot  labour  for  bread;  I  cannot  work 
to  live.  In  that  respect  I  have  no  parallel.  The  world 
does  not  contain  my  likeness.  My  very  nature  unfits 
me  for  any  profitable  business.  My  dependence  must 
ever  be  on  others  or  on  fortune. 

As  to  the  influence  of  some  stronger  motive  to  industry 
than  has  yet  occurred,  I  am  without  hope.  There  can 
be  no  stronger  ones  to  a  generous  mind,  than  have 
long  been  urgent  with  me :  being  proof  against  these, 
none  will  ever  conquer  my  reluctance. 

I  am  not  indolent,  but  my  activity  is  vague,  profitless, 
capricious.  No  lucrative  or  noble  purpose  impels  me.  I 
aim  at  nothing  but  selfish  gratification.  I  have  no  relish, 
indeed,  for  sensual  indulgences.  It  is  the  intellectual 
taste  that  calls  for  such  banquets  as  imagination  and 
science  can  furnish;  but,  though  less  sordid  than  the 
epicure,  the  voluptuary,  or  the  sportsman,  the  principle 
that  governs  them  and  me  is  the  same ;  equally  limited 
to  self;  equally  void  of  any  basis  in  morals  or  religion. 

Should  you  give  yourself  to  me,  and  rely  upon  my 
labour  for  shelter  and  food,  deplorable  and  complete 
would  be  your  disappointment.  I  know  myself  too  well 
to  trust  myself  with  such  an  office.  My  love  for  you 
would  not  strengthen  my  heart  or  my  hands.  No ;  it 


102  JANE    TALBOT. 

would  only  sink  me  with  more  speed  into  despair. 
Quickly,  and  by  some  fatal  deed,  should  I  abandon  you, 
my  children  and  the  world. 

Possibly  I  err.  Possibly  I  underrate  my  strength  of 
mind  and  the  influence  of 'habit,  which  makes  easy  to  us 
every  path ;  but  I  will  not  trust  to  the  possible. 

Hence  it  is  that,  if  by  marriage  you  should  become 
wholly  dependent  on  me,  it  could  never  take  place.  Some 
freak  of  fortune  may  indeed  place  me  above  want,  but 
my  own  efforts  never  will.  Indeed,  in  this  forbearance, 
in  this  self-denial,  there  is  no  merit.  While  admitted  to 
the  privileges  of  a  betrothed  man,  your  company,  your 
confidence,  every  warrantable  proof  of  love  mine,  I  may 
surely  dispense  with  the  privileges  of  wedlock.  Secretly 
repine  I  might ;  occasionally  I  might  murmur.  But  my 
days  would  glide  along  with  fewer  obstacles,  at  least, 
than  if  I  were  that  infirm  and  disconsolate  wretch,  your 
husband. 

But  this  unhappy  alternative  is  not  ours.  Thou  hast 
something  which  thy  mother  cannot  take  away ;  sufficient 
for  thy  maintenance,  thy  frugal  support.  Meaner  and 
more  limited  indeed  than  thy  present  and  former  afflu- 
ence ;  such  as  I,  of  my  own  motion,  would  never  reduce 
thee  to;  such  as  I  can  object  to  only  on  thy  own  account. 

How  has  the  night  run  away !  My  friend's  sister  ar- 
rived here  yesterday.  They  joined  in  beseeching  me  to 
go  to  a  separate  chamber  and  strive  for  some  refresh- 
ment. I  have  slept  a  couple  of  hours,  and  that  has  suf- 
ficed. My  mind,  on  waking,  was  thronged  with  so  many 
images  connected  with  my  Jane,  that  I  started  up  at  last 
and  betook  myself  to  the  pen. 

Yet  how  versatile  and  fleeting  is  thought !  In  this  long 
letter  I  have  not  put  down  one  thing  that  I  intended.  I 
meant  not  to  repeat  what  has, been  so  often  said  before, 
and  especially  I  meant  not  to  revolve,  if  I  could  help 
it,  any  gloomy  ideas. 

Thy  letters  gave  me  exquisite  pleasure.  They  dis- 
played all  thy  charming  self  to  my  view.  I  pressed 
every  precious  line  to  my  lips  with  nearly  as  much  rap- 
ture as  I  would  have  done  the  prattler  herself,  had  she 
been  talking  to  me  all  this  tenderness  instead  of  writing  it. 


JANE    TALBOT.  103 

I  took  up  the  pen  that  I  might  tell  thee  my  thanks, 
yet  rambled  almost  instantly  into  mournful  repetitions. 
I  have  half  a  mind  to  burn  the  scribble,  but  I  cannot 
write  more  just  now,  and  this  will  show  you,  at  least, 
that  I  am  not  unmindful  of  you.  Adieu.  GOLDEN. 


LETTER  XXVIII. 
To  Mrs.  Talbot. 

Baltimore,  November  G. 

LET  me  see !  this  is  the  beginning  of  November.  Yes ; 
it  was  just  a  twelvemonth  ago  that  I  was  sitting,  at  this 
silent  hour,  at  a  country-fire  just  like  this.  My  elbow 
then  as  now  was  leaning  on  a  table,  supplied  with  books 
and  writing-tools. 

"What  shall  I  do,"  thought  I,  "then,  to  pass  away 
the  time  till  ten  ?  Can't  think  of  going  to  bed  till  that 
hour,  and  if  I  sit  here,  idly  basking  in  the  beams  of  this 
cheerful  blaze,  I  shall  fall  into  a  listless,  uneasy  doze, 
that,  without  refreshing  me,  as  sleep  would  do,  will  unfit 
me  for  sleep. 

"Shall  I  read?  Nothing  here  that  is  new.  Enough 
that  is  of  value,  if  I  could  but  make  myself  inquisitive ; 
treasures  which,  in  a  curious  mood,  I  would  eagerly  rifle ; 
but  now  the  tedious  page  only  adds  new  weight  to  my 
eyelids. 

"Shall  I  write?  What?  to  whom?  there  are  Sam 
and  Tom,  and  brother  Dick,  and  sister  Sue :  they  all 
have  epistolary  claims  upon  me  still  unsatisfied.  Twenty 
letters  that  I  ought  to  answer.  Come,  let  me  briskly  set 
about  the  task 

"Not  now ;  some  other  time.  To-morrow.  What 
can  I  write  about  ?  Haven't  two  ideas  that  hang  to- 
gether intelligibly.  'Twill  be  commonplace  trite  stuff. 
Besides,  writing  always  plants  a  thorn  in  my  breast. 

"  Let  me  try  my  hand  at  a  reverie ;  a  meditation, — on 
that  hearth-brush.  Hair — what  sort  of  hair  ?  of  a  hog ; 
and  the  wooden  handle — of  poplar  or  cedar  or  white  oak. 
At  one  time  a  troop  of  swine  munching  mast  in  a  grove 


104  JANE    TALBOT. 

of  oaks,  transformed  by  those  magicians,  carpenters  and 
butchers,  into  hearth-brushes.  A  whimsical  metamor- 
phosis, upon  my  faith ! 

"Pish!  what  stupid  musing!  I  see  I  must  betake 
myself  to  bed  at  last,  and  throw  away  upon  oblivion  one 
more  hour  than  is  common." 

So  it  once  was.  But  how  is  it  now  ?  no  wavering  and 
deliberating  what  I  shall  do, — to  lash  the  drowsy  mo- 
ments into  speed.  In  my  haste  to  set  the  table  and  its 
gear  in  order  for  scribble,  I  overturn  the  inkhorn,  spill 
the  ink,  and  stain  the  floor. 

The  damage  is  easily  repaired,  and  I  sit  down,  with 
unspeakable  alacrity,  to  a  business  that  tires  my  muscles, 
sets  a  gnawer  at  work  upon  my  lungs,  fatigues  my  brain, 
and  leaves  me  listless  and  spiritless. 

How  you  have  made  yourself  so  absolute  a  mistress 
of  the  goose-quill,  I  can't  imagine;  how  you  can  main- 
tain the  Avritiiig  posture  and  pursue  the  writing  move- 
ment for  ten  hours  together,  without  benumbed  brain  or 
aching  fingers,  is  beyond  my  comprehension. 

But  you  see  what  zeal  will  do  for  me.  It  has  enabled 
me  to  keep  drowsiness,  fatigue,  and  languor  at  bay  during 
a  long  night.  Converse  with  thee,  heavenly  maid,  is  an 
antidote  even  to  sleep,  the  most  general  and  inveterate 
of  all  maladies. 

By-and-by  I  shall  have  as  voluble  a  pen  as  thy  own. 
And  yet  to  that,  my  crazy  constitution  says,  Nay.  'Twill 
never  be  to  me  other  than  an  irksome,  ache-producing  im- 
plement. It  need  give  pleasure  to  others,  not  a  little,  to 
compensate  for  the  pain  it  gives  myself. 

But  this,  thou'lt  say,  is  beside  the  purpose.  It  is ;  and 
I  will  lay  aside  the  quill  a  moment  to  consider.  I  left  off 
my  last  letter,  with  a  head  full  of  affecting  images,  which 
I  have  waited  impatiently  for  the  present  opportunity  of 
putting  upon  paper.  Adieu,  then,  for  a  moment,  says  thy 

GOLDEN. 


JANE   TALBOT.  105 


LETTER  XXIX. 

To  the  Same. 

10  o'clock  at  night. 

Now  let  us  take  a  view  of  what  is  to  come.  Too  often 
I  endeavour  to  escape  from  foresight  when  it  presents  to 
me  nothing  but  evils,  but  now  I  must,  for  thy  sake,  be 
less  a  coward. 

In  six  weeks  Jane  becomes  mine.  Till  then,  thy  mother 
will  not  cast  thee  out  of  her  protection.  And  will  she 
then  ?  will  she  not  allow  of  thy  continuance  in  thy  pre- 
sent dwelling  ?  and,  though  so  much  displeased  as  to  refuse 
thee  her  countenance  and  correspondence,  will  she  indeed 
turn  thee  out  of  doors  ?  She  threatens  it,  we  see ;  but  I 
suspect  it  will  never  be  more  than  a  threat,  employed, 
perhaps,  only  to  intimidate  and  deter ;  not  designed  to  be 
enforced.  Or,  if  made  in  earnest,  yet,  when  the  irrevoca- 
ble deed  is  done,  will  she  not  hesitate  to  inflict  the  penalty  ? 
Will  not  her  ancient  affection ;  thy  humility,  thy  sorrow, 
thy  merits, — such  as,  in  spite  of  this  instance  of  contu- 
macy, she  cannot  deny  thee, — will  not  these  effectually 
plead  for  thee  ? 

More  than  ever  will  she  see  that  thou  needest  her  bounty; 
and,  since  she  cannot  recall  what  is  past,  will  she  not  relent 
and  be  willing  to  lessen  the  irremediable  evil  all  she  can  ? 

There  is  one  difficulty  that  I  know  not  how  to  surmount. 
Giving  to  the  wife  will  be  only  giving  to  the  husband. 
Shall  one  whom  she  so  much  abhors  be  luxuriously  sup- 
plied from  her  bounty  ? 

The  wedded  pair  must  live  together,  she  will  think ;  and 
shall  this  hated  encroacher  find  refuge  from  beggary  and 
vileness  under  her  roof, — be  lodged  and  banqueted  at  her 
expense  ?  That  her  indignant  heart  will  never  suffer. 

Would  to  Heaven  she  would  think  of  me  with  less  ab- 
horrence !  I  wish  for  treatment  conformable  to  her  as- 
sumed relation  to  thee,  for  all  our  sakes.  As  to  me,  I  have 
no  pride ;  no  punctilio,  that  will  stand  in  the  way  of  re- 
conciliation. At  least  there  is  no  deliberate  and  steadfast 
sentiment  of  that  kind.  When  I  reason  the  matter  with 


106  JANE   TALBOT. 

myself,  I  perceive  a  sort  of  claim  to  arise  from  my  poverty 
and  relation  to  thee  on  the  one  hand,  and,  on  the  other, 
from  thy  merit,  thy  affinity  to  her,  and  her  capacity  to  bene- 
fit. Yet  I  will  never  supplicate — not  meanly  supplicate 
— for  an  alms.  I  will  not  live,  nor  must  thou,  when  thou  art 
mine,  in  her  house.  Whatever  she  will  give  thee,  money, 
or  furniture,  or  clothes,  receive  it  promptly  and  with 
gratitude  ;  but  let  thy  home  be  thy  own.  For*  lodging 
and  food  be  thou  the  payer. 

And  where  shall  be  thy  home  ?  You  love  the  comforts, 
the  ease,  the  independence  of  a  household.  Your  own 
pittance  will  not  suffice  for  this.  All  these  you  must  re- 
linquish for  my  sake.  You  must  go  into  a  family  of 
strangers.  You  must  hire  a  chamber,  and  a  plate  of  such 
food  as  is  going.  You  must  learn  to  bear  the  humours 
and  accommodate  yourself  to  the  habits  of  your  inmates. 

Some  frugal  family  and  humble  dwelling  must  content 
thee.  A  low  roof,  a  narrow  chamber,  and  an  obscure 
avenue,  the  reverse  of  all  the  specious,  glossy,  and  abun- 
dant that  surround  thee  now,  will  be  thy  portion, — all  that 
thou  must  look  for  as  my  wife.  And  how  will  this  do, 
Jane  ?  Is  not  the  price  too  great  ? 

And  my  company  will  not  solace  thee  under  these  in- 
conveniences. I  must  not  live  with  thee ;  only  an  occa- 
sional visitor;  one  among  a  half-dozen  at  a  common  fire; 
with  Avitnesses  of  all  we  say.  Thy  pittance  will  do  no 
more  than  support  thyself.  I  must  house  myself  and  feed 
elsewhere.  Where,  I  know  not.  That  will  depend  upon 
the  species  of  employment  I  shall  be  obliged  to  pursue  for 
my  subsistence.  Scanty  and  irksome  it  will  be,  at  best. 

Once  a  day  I  may  see  thee.  Most  of  my  evenings  may 
possibly  be  devoted  to  thy  company.  A  soul  harassed  by 
unwelcome  toil,  eyes  dim  with  straining  at  tiresome  or 
painful  objects,  shall  I  bring  to  thee.  If  now  and  then 
we  are  alone,  how  can  I  contribute  to  thy  entertainment  ? 
The  day's  task  will  furnish  me  with  nothing  new.  In- 
stead of  alleviating,  by  my  cheerful  talk,  thy  vexations  and 
discomforts,  I  shall  demand  consolation  from  thee. 

And  yet  imperious  necessity  may  bereave  us  even  of 
that  joy.  I  may  be  obliged  to  encounter  the  perils  of 
the  seas  once  more.  Three-fourths  of  the  year,  the  ocean 


JANE    TALBOT.  107 

may  divide  us,  thou  in  solitude,  the  while,  pondering  on 
the  dangers  to  which  I  may  be  exposed,  and  I,  a  prey  to 
discontent,  and  tempted  in  some  evil  hour  to  forget  thee, 
myself,  and  the  world. 

How  my  heart  sinks  at  this  prospect !  Does  not  thine, 
Jane  ?  Dost  thou  not  fear  to  take  such  a  wretched  chance 
with  me  ?  I  that  know  myself,  my  own  imbecility, — I 
ought  surely  to  rescue  thee  from  such  a  fate,  by  giving 
thee  up. 

I  can  write  no  more  just  now.  I  wonder  how  I  fell 
into  this  doleful  strain.  It  was  silly  in  me  to  indulge  it. 
These  images  are  not  my  customary  inmates.  Yet,  now 
that  they  occur  to  me,  they  seem  but  rational  and  just. 
I  want,  methinks,  to  know  how  they  appear  to  thee. 
Adieu.  HENRY  GOLDEN. 


LETTER  XXX. 

To  the  same. 

Wilmington,  November  7. 

I  HAVE  purposely  avoided  dAvelling  on  the  incidents 
that  are  passing  here.  They  engross  my  thoughts  at  all 
times  but  those  devoted  to  the  pen,  and  to  write  to  thee 
is  one  expedient  for  loosening  their  hold. 

An  expedient  not  always  successful.  My  mind  wan- 
ders, in  spite  of  me,  from  my  own  concerns  and  from  thine, 
to  the  sick-bed  of  my  friend.  A  reverie,  painful  and  con- 
fused, invades  me  now  and  then ;  my  pen  stops,  and  I  am 
obliged  to  exert  myself  anew  to  shake  off  the  spell. 

Till  now,  I  knew  not  how  much  I  loved  this  young  man. 
Strange  beings  we  are !  Separated  as  we  have  been  for 
many  a  year,  estranged  as  much  by  difference  of  senti- 
ments as  local  distance,  his  image  visiting  my  memory  not 
once  a  month,  and  then  a  transitory,  momentary  visit ;  had 
he  died  a  year  ago,  and  I  not  known  it,  the  stream  of 
my  thoughts  would  not  have  been  ruffled  by  a  single 
impediment.  Yet,  now  that  I  stand  over  him  and  wit- 
ness his  decay 

Many  affecting  conversations  we  have  had.     I  cannot 


108  JANE   TALBOT. 

repeat  them  now.  After  lie  is  gone,  I  will  put  them  all 
upon  paper  and  muse  upon  them  often. 

His  closing  hour  is  serene.  His  piety  now  stands  him 
in  some  stead.  In  calling  me  hither,  he  tells  me  that  he 
designed  not  his  own  gratification,  but  my  good.  He 
wished  to  urge  upon  me  the  truths  of  religion,  at  a  time 
when  his  own  conduct  might  visibly  attest  their  value.  By 
their  influence  in  making  that  gloomy  path  which  leads 
to  the  grave  joyous  and  lightsome,  he  wishes  me  to  judge 
of  their  excellence. 

His  pains  are  incessant  and  sharp.  He  can  seldom 
articulate  without  an  effort  that  increases  his  pangs ;  yet 
he  talks  much  in  cogent  terms,  and  with  accurate  con- 
ceptions, and,  in  all  he  says,  evinces  a  pathetic  earnest- 
ness for  my  conviction. 

I  listen  to  him  with  a  heart  as  unbiassed  as  I  can  pre- 
vail on  it  to  be ;  as  free,  I  mean,  from  its  customary  bias ; 
for  I  strive  to  call  up  feelings  and  ideas  similar  to  his.  I 
know  how  pure  to  him  would  be  the  satisfaction  of  leaving 
the  world  with  the  belief  of  a  thorough  change  in  me. 

I  argue  not  with  him.  I  say  nothing  but  to  persuade 
him  that  I  am  far  from  being  that  contumacious  enemy 
to  his  faith  which  he  is  prone  to  imagine  me  to  be. 

Thy  mother's  letter  has  called  up  more  vividly  than 
usual  our  ancient  correspondence,  and  the  effects  of  that 
disclosure.  Yet  I  have  not  mentioned  the  subject  to  him. 
I  never  mentioned  it.  I  could  not  trust  myself  to  mention 
it.  There  was  no  need.  The  letters  were  written  by 
me.  I  did  not  charge  him  to  secrecy,  and,  if  I  had,  he 
would  not  have  been  bound  to  compliance.  It  was  his 
duty  to  make  that  use  of  them  which  tended  to  prevent 
mischief, — which  appeared  to  him  to  have  that  tendency ; 
and  this  he  has  done.  His  design,  I  have  no  doubt,  was 
benevolent  and  just. 

He  saw  not  all  the  consequences  that  have  followed, 
'tis  true ;  but  that  ignorance  would  justify  him,  even  if 
these  consequences  were  unpleasing  to  him;  but  they 
would  not  have  displeased,  had  they  been  foreseen.  They 
would  only  have  made  his  efforts  more  vigorous,  nis  dis- 
closures more  explicit. 

His  conduct,  indeed,  on  that  occasion,  as  far  as  we 


JANE    TALBOT.  109 

know  it,  seems  irregular  and  injudicious.  To  lay  before 
a  stranger  private  letters  from  his  friend,  in  which 
opinions  were  avowed  and  defended  that  he  knew  would 
render  the  writer  detestable  to  her  that  read. 

He  imagined  himself  justified  in  imputing  to  me  atro- 
cious and  infamous  errors.  He  was  grieved  for  my  de- 
basement, and  endeavoured,  by  his  utmost  zeal  and  elo- 
quence, to  rectify  these  errors.  This  was  generous  and 
just :  but  needed  he  to  proclaim  these  errors  and  blazon 
this  infamy? 

Yet  ought  I  to  wish  to  pass  upon  the  world  for  other 
than  I  am  ?  Can  I  value  that  respect  which  is  founded 
in  ignorance?  Can  I  be  satisfied  with  caresses  from 
those  who,  if  they  knew  me  fully,  would  execrate  and 
avoid  me? 

For  past  faults  and  rectified  errors,  are  not  remorse  and 
amendment  adequate  atonements?  If  any  one  despise 
me  for  what  I  was,  let  me-  not  shrink  from  the  penalty. 
Let  me  not  find  pleasure  in  the  praise  of  those  whose 
approbation  is  founded  on  ignorance  of  what  I  am.  It 
is  unjust  to  demand,  it  is  sordid  to  retain,  praise  that  is 
not  merited  either  by  our  present  conduct  or  our  past. 
Why  have  I  declined  such  praise  ?  Because  I  value  it  not. 

Thus  have  I  endeavoured  to  think  in  relation  to  Thom- 
son. My  endeavour  has  succeeded.  My  heart  entirely 
acquits  him.  It  even  applauds  him  for  his  noble  sincerity. 

Yet  I  could  never  write  to  him  or  talk  to  him  on  this 
subject.  My  tongue,  my  pen,  will  be  sure  to  falter.  I 
know  that  he  will  boldly  justify  his  conduct,  and  I  feel 
that  he  ought  to  justify ;  yet  the  attempt  to  justify  would 
awaken — indignation,  selfishness.  In  spite  of  the  sug- 
gestions of  my  better  reason,  I  know  we  should  quarrel. 

We  should  not  quarrel  now,  if  the  topic  were  mentioned. 
Of  indignation  against  him,  even  for  a  real  fault,  much 
less  for  an  imaginary  one,  I  am,  at  this  time,  not  capable ; 
but  it  would  be  useless  to  mention  it.  There  is  nothing 
to  explain ;  no  misapprehensions  to  remove,  no  doubts  to 
clear  up.  All  that  he  did,  I,  in  the  same  case,  ought  to 
have  done. 

But  I  told  you  I  wished  not  to  fill  my  letters  with  the 
melancholy  scene  before  me.  This  is  a  respite,  a  solace 
10 


110  JANE    TALBOT. 

to  me ;  and  thus,  and  in  reading  thy  letters,  I  employ  all 
my  spare  moments. 

Write  to  me,  my  love.  Daily,  hourly,  and  cheerfully, 
if  possible.  Borrow  not ;  be  not  thy  letters  tinged  with 
the  melancholy  hue  of  this. 

Write  speedily  and  much,  if  thou  lovest  thy 

GOLDEN. 


LETTER  XXXI. 

To  Henry  Colden. 

Philadelphia,  Nov.  9. 

WHAT  do  you  mean,  Hal,  by  such  a  strain  as  this?  I 
wanted  no  additional  causes  of  disquiet.  Yet  you  tell 
me  to  write  cheerfully.  I  would  have  written  cheerfully, 
if  these  letters,  so  full  of  dark  forebodings  and  rueful 
prognostics,  had  not  come  to  damp  my  spirits. 

And  is  the  destiny  that  awaits  us  so  very  mournful  ? 
Is  thy  wife  necessarily  to  lose  so  many  comforts  and 
incur  so  many  mortifications?  Are  my  funds  so 'small, 
that  they  will  not  secure  to  me  the  privilege  of  a  sepa- 
rate apartment,  in  which  I  may  pass  my  time  Avith  whom 
and  in  what  manner  I  please  ? 

Must  I  huddle,  with  a  dozen  squalling  children  and  their 
notably-noisy  or  sluttishly-indolent  dam,  round  a  dirty 
hearth  and  meagre  winter's  fire  ?  Must  sooty  rafters,  a 
sorry  truckle-bed,  and  a  mud-encumbered  alley,  be  my 
nuptial  lot? 

Out  upon  thec,  thou  egregious  painter !  Well  for  thee 
thou  art  not  within  my  arm's  length.  I  should  certainly 
bestow  upon  thee  a  hearty — kiss  or  two.  My  blunder- 
ing pen !  I  recall  the  word.  I  meant  cuff;  but  my  saucy 
pen,  pretending  to  know  more  of  my  mind  than  I  did 
myself,  turned  (as  its  mistress,  mayhap,  would  have  done, 
hadst  thou  been  near  me,  indeed)  her  cuff  into  a  kiss. 

What  possessed  thee,  my  beloved,  to  predict  so  rue- 
fully? A  very  good  beginning  too!  more  vivacity  than 
common!  But  I  hardly  had  time  to  greet  the  sunny 
radiance — tis  a  long  time  since  my  cell  was  gilded  by  so 


JAXE    TALBOT.  Ill 

sweet  a  beam — when  a  black  usurping  mist  stole  it  away, 
and  all  was  dreary  as  it  is  wont  to  be. 

Perhaps  thy  being  in  a  house  of  mourning  may  account 
for  it.  Fitful  and  versatile  I  know  thee  to  be ;  change- 
able with  scene  and  circumstance.  Thy  views  are  just 
what  any  eloquent  companion  pleases  to  make  them. 
She  thou  lovest  is  thy  deity;  her  lips  thy  oracle.  And 
hence  my  cheerful  omens  of  the  future;  the  confidence 
I  have  in  the  wholesome  efficacy  of  my  government.  I, 
that  have  the  will  to  make  thee  happy,  have  the  power 
too.  I  know  I  have ;  and  hence  my  •promptitude  to  give 
away  all  for  thy  sake ;  to  give  myself  a  wife's  title  to 
thy  company,  a  conjugal  share  in  thy  concerns,  and 
claim  to  reign  over  thee. 

Make  haste,  and  atone,  by  the  future  brightness  of 
thy  epistolai-y  emanations,  for  the  pitchy  cloud  that  over- 
spreads these  sick  man's  dreams. 

How  must  thou  have  rummaged  the  cupboard  of  thy 
fancy  for  musty  scraps  and  flinty  crusts  to  feed  thy  spleen 
withal, — inattentive  to  the  dainties  which  a  blue-eyed 
Hebe  had  culled  in  the  garden  of  Hope,  and  had  poured 
from  out  her  basket  into  thy  ungrateful  lap. 

While  thou  wast  mumbling  these  refractory  and  un- 
savoury bits,  I  was  banqueting  on  the  rosy  and  delicious 
products  of  that  Eden  which  love,  when  not  scared  away 
by  evil  omens,  is  always  sure  (the  poet  says)  to  plant 
around  us.  I  have  tasted  nectarines  of  her  raising, 
and  I  find  her,  ( let  me  tell  thee,  an  admirable  horticul- 
turist. 

Thou  art  so  far  off,  there  is  no  sending  thee  a  basket- 
ful, or  I  would  do  it.  They  would  wilt  and  wither  ere 
they  reached  thee ;  the  atmosphere  thou  breathest  would 
strike  a  deadly  worm  into  their  hearts  before  thou  couldst 
get  them  to  thy  lips. 

But  to  drop  the  basket  and  the  bough,  and  take 
up  a  plain  meaning: — I  will  tell  thee  bow  I  was  em- 
ployed when  thy  letter  came ;  but  first  I  must  go  back 
a  little. 

In  the  autumn  of  ninety-seven,  and  when  death  had 
spent  his  shafts  in  my  own  family,  I  went  to  see  how  a 
family  fared,  the  father  and  husband  of  which  kept  a 


112  JANE    TALBOT. 

shop  in  Front  Street,  where  every  thing  a  lady  wanted 
was  sold,  and  where  I  had  always  been  served  with  great 
despatch  and  affability. 

Being  one  day  (I  am  going  to  tell  you  how  our  acquaint- 
ance began) — being  one  day  detained  in  the  shop  by  a 
shower,  I  was  requested  to  walk  into  the  parlour.  I 
chatted  ten  minutes  with  the  good  woman  of  the  house, 
and  found  in  her  so  much  gentleness  and  good  sense,  that 
afterwards  my  shopping  visits  were  always,  in  part,  social 
ones.  My  business  being  finished  at  the  counter,  I  usually 
went  back,  and  found  on  every  interview  new  cause  for 
esteeming  the  family.  The  treatment  I  met  with  was 
always  cordial  and  frank ;  and,  though  our  meetings 
were  thus  merely  casual,  we  seemed,  in  a  short  time,  to 
have  grown  into  a  perfect  knowledge  of  each  other. 

This  was  in  the  summer  you  left  us,  and,  the  malady 
breaking  out  a  few  months  after,  and  all  shopping  being 
at  an  end,  and  alarm  and  grief  taking  early  possession 
of  my  heart,  I  thought  but  seldom  of  the  Hennings.  A 
few  weeks  after  death  had  bereaved  me  of  my  friend,  I 
called  these,  and  others  whose  welfare  was  dear  to  me, 
to  my  remembrance,  and  determined  to  pay  them  a  visit 
and  discover  how  it  fared  with  them.  I  hoped  they  had 
left  the  city;  yet  Mrs.  Henning  had  told  me  that  her 
husband,  who  was  a  devout  man,  held  it  criminal  to  fly 
on  such  occasions,  and  that  she,  having  passed  safely 
through  the  pestilence  of  former  years,  had  no  appre- 
hensions from  staying.  | 

Their  house  was  inhabited,  but  I  found  the  good  woman 
in  great  affliction.  Her  husband  had  lately  died,  after  a 
tedious  illness,  and  her  distress  was  augmented  by  the  soli- 
tude in  which  the  flight  of  all  her  neighbours  and  acquaint- 
ances had  left  her.  A  friendly  visit  could  at  no  time  have 
been  so  acceptable  to  her,  and  my  sympathy  was  not  more 
needed  to  console  her  than  my  counsel  to  assist  her  in  the 
new  state  of  her  affairs. 

Laying  aside  ceremony,  I  inquired  freely  into  her  con- 
dition, and  offered  her  my  poor  services.  She  made  me 
fully  acquainted  with  her  circumstances,  and  I  was  highly 
pleased  at  finding  them  so  good.  Her  husband  had  al- 
ways been  industrious  and  thrifty,  and  his  death  left  her 


JANE   TALBOT.  113 

enough  to  support  her  and  her  Sally  in  the  way  they 
wished. 

Inquiring  into  their  views  and  wishes,  I  found  them 
limited  to  the  privacy  of  a  small  but  neat  house  in  some 
cleanly  and  retired  corner  of  the  city.  Their  stock  in  trade 
I  advised  them  to  convert  into  money,  and,  placing  it  in 
some  public  fund,  live  upon  its  produce.  Mrs.  Henning 
knew  nothing  of  the  world.  Though  an  excellent  manager 
within-doors,  any  thing  that  might  be  called  business  was 
strange  and  arduous  to  her,  and  without  my  direct  assist- 
ance she  could  do  nothing. 

Happily,  at  this  time,  just  such  a  cheap  and  humble, 
but  neat,  new,  and  airy  dwelling  as  my  friend  required, 
belonging  to  Mrs.  Fielder,  was  vacant.  You  know  the 
house.  'Tis  that  where  the  Frenchman  Catineau  lived. 
Is  it  not  a  charming  abode  ? — at  a  distance  from  noise, 
with  a  green  field  opposite  and  a  garden  behind ;  of  two 
stories ;  a  couple  of  good  rooms  on  each  floor ;  with  un- 
spoiled water,  and  a  kitchen,  below  the  ground  indeed,  but 
light,  wholesome,  and  warm. 

Most  fortunately,  too,  that  incorrigible  Creole  had  de- 
serted it.  He  was  scared  away  by  the  fever,  and  no  other 
had  put  in  a  claim.  I  made  haste  to  write  to  my  mo- 
ther, who,  though  angry  with  me  on  my  own  account, 
could  not  reject  my  application  in  favour  of  my  good 
widow. 

I  even  prevailed  on  her  to  set  the  rent  forty  dollars 
lower  than  she  might  have  gotten  from  another,  and  to 
give  a  lease  of  it  at  that  rate  for  five  years.  You  can't 
imagine  my  satisfaction  in  completing  this  affair,  and  in 
seeing  my  good  woman  quietly  settled  in  her  new  abode, 
with  her  daughter  Sally  and  her  servant  Alice,  who  had 
come  Avith  her  from  Europe,  and  had  lived  with  her  the 
dear  knows  how  long. 

Mrs.  Henning  is  no  common  woman,  I  assure  you. 
Her  temper  is  the  sweetest  in  the  world.  Not  cultivated 
or  enlightened  is  her  understanding,  but  naturally  correct. 
Her  life  has  always  been  spent  under  her  own  roof;  and 
never  saw  I  a  scene  of  more  quiet  and  order  than  her 
little  homestead  exhibits.  Though  humbly  born,  and  per- 
haps meanly  brought  up,  her  parlour  and  chamber  add  to 
10* 


114  JANE   TALBOT. 

the  purest  cleanliness  somewhat  that  approaches  to  ele- 
gance. 

The  mistress  and  the  maid  are  nearly  of  the  same 
age,  and,  though  equally  innocent  and  good-humoured,  the 
former  has  more  sedateness  and  reserve  than  the  latter. 
She  is  devout  in  her  way,  which  is  Methodism,  and 
acquires  from  this  source  nothing  but  new  motives  of 
charity  to  her  neighbours  and  thankfulness  to  God. 

Much — indeed,  all — of  these  comforts  she  ascribes  to 
me ;  yet  her  gratitude  is  not  loquacious.  It  shows  itself 
less  in  words  than  in  the  pleasure  she  manifests  on  my 
visits ;  the  confidence  with  which  she  treats  me ;  laying 
before  me  all  her  plans  and  arrangements,  and  entreating 
my  advice  in  every  thing.  Yet  she  has  brought  with  her, 
from  her  native  country,  notions  of  her  inferiority  to  the 
better-born  and  the  better-educated  but  too  soothing  to 
my  pride.  Hence  she  is  always  diffident,  and  never 
makes  advances  to  intimacy  but  when  expressly  invited 
and  encouraged. 

It  was  a  good  while  before  all  her  new  arrangements 
were  completed.  When  they  were,  I  told  her  I  would 
spend  the  day  with  her,  for  which  she  was  extremely 
grateful.  She  sent  me  word  as  soon  as  she  was  ready 
to  receive  me,  and  I  went. 

Artless  and  unceremonious  was  the  good  woman  in  the 
midst  of  all  her  anxiety  to  please.  Affectionate  yet  dis- 
creet in  her  behaviour  to  her  Sally  and  her  Alice,  and 
of  me  as  tenderly  observant  as  possible. 

She  showed  me  all  her  rooms,  from  cellar  to  garret, 
and  every  thing  I  saw  delighted  me.  Two  neat  beds  in 
the  front-room  above  belong  to  her  and  Sally.  The  back- 
room is  decked  in  a  more  fanciful  and  costly  manner. 

"Why,  this,  my  good  friend,"  said  I,  on  entering  it, 
"is  quite  superb.  Here  is  carpet  and  coverlet  and  cur- 
tains that  might  satisfy  a  prince :  you  are  quite  prodigal. 
And  for  whose  accommodation  is  all  this  ?" 

"Oh,  any  lady  that  Avill  favour  me  with  a  visit.  It  is 
a  spare  room,  and  the  only  one  I  have,  and  I  thought  I 
would  launch  out  a  little  for  once.  One  wishes  to  set 
the  best  they  have  before  a  guest, — though,  indeed,  I 
don't  expect  many  to  visit  me ;  but  it  is  some  comfort  to 


JANE    TALBOT.  115 

think  one  has  it  in  one's  power  to  lodge  a  friend,  when 
it  happens  so,  in  a  manner  that  may  not  discredit  one's 
intentions.  I  have  no  relations  in  this  country,  and  the 
only  friend  I  have  in  the  world,  besides  God,  is  you, 
madam.  But  still,  it  may  sometimes  happen,  you  know, 
that  one  may  have  occasion  to  entertain  somebody.  God 
be  thanked,  I  have  enough,  and  what  little  I  have  to 
spare  I  have  no  right  to  hoard  up." 

"But  might  you  not  accommodate  a  good  quiet  kind 
of  body  in  this  room,  at  so  much  a  year  or  week  ?" 

"Why,  ma'am,  if  you  think  that's  best;  but  I  thought 
one  might  indulge  one's  self  in  living  one's  own  Avay.  I 
have  never  been  used  to  strangers,  and  always  have  had 
a  small  family.  It  would  be  a  very  new  thing  to  me  to 
have  an  inmate.  I  am  afraid  I  should  not  please  such  a 
one.  And  then,  ma'am,  if  this  room's  occupied,  I  have 
no  decent  place  to  put  any  accidental  person  in.  'It  would 
go  hard  with  me  to  be  obliged  to  turn  a  good  body  away, 
that  might  be  here  on  a  visit,  and  might  be  caught  by  a 
rain  or  a  snow  storm." 

"  Very  true ;  I  did  not  think  of  that.  And  yet  it  seems 
a  pity  that  so  good  a  room  should  be  unemployed,  perhaps 
for  a  year  together." 

"So  it  does,  ma'am;  and  I  can't  but  say,  if  a  proper 
person  should  offer,  who  wanted  to  be  snug  and  quiet,  I 
should  have  no  great  objection.  One  that  could  put  up 
with  our  humble  ways,  and  be  satisfied  with  what  I  could 
do  to  make  them  comfortable.  I  think  I  should  like  such 
a  one  well  enough." 

"One,"  said  I,  "who  would  accept  such  accommoda- 
tion as  a  favour.  A  single  person,  for  example.  A 
woman;  a  young  woman.  A  stranger  in  the  country, 
and  friendless  like  yourself." 

"Oh,  very  true,  madam,"  said  the  good  woman,  with 
sparkling  benignity;  "I  should  have  no  objection  in  the 
world  to  such  a  one.  I  should  like  it  of  all  things.  And 
I  should  not  mind  to  be  hard  with  such  a  one.  I  should 
not  stickle  about  terms.  Pray,  ma'am,  do  you  know  any 
such  ?  If  you  do,  and  will  advise  me  to  take  her,  I  would 
be  very  glad  to  do  it." 

Now,  Hal,  what  thinkest  thou  ?     Cannot  I  light  on 


116  JANE    TALBOT. 

such  a  young,  single,  slenderly-provided  woman  as  this  ? 
One  whose  heart  pants  for  just  such  a  snug  retreat  as 
Mrs.  Henning's  roof  would  afford  her  ? 

This  little  chamber,  set  out  with  perfect  neatness; 
looking  out  on  a  very  pretty  piece  of  verdure  and  a 
cleanly  court-yard ;  with  such  a  good  couple  to  provide 
for  her ;  with  her  privacy  unapproachable  but  at  her  own 
pleasure ;  her  quiet  undisturbed  by  a  prater,  a  scolder,  a 
bustler,  or  a  whiner  ;  no  dirty  children  to  offend  the  eye, 
or  squalling  ones  to  wound  the  ear ;  with  admitted  claims 
to  the  gratitude,  confidence,  and  affection  of  her  hostess : 
might  not  these  suffice  to  make  a  lowly,  unambitious 
maiden  happy? 

One  who,  like  Mrs.  Henning,  had  only  one  friend  upon 
earth.  Whom  her  former  associates  refused  to  commune 
with  or  look  upon.  Whose  loneliness  was  uncheered,  ex- 
cept by  her  own  thoughts  and  her  books, — perhaps  now 
and  then,  at  times  when  oceans  did  not  sever  her  from 
him,  by  that  one  earthly  friend. 

Might  she  not  afford  him  as  many  hours  of  her  society 
as  his  engagements  would  allow  him  to  claim?  Might 
she  not,  as  an  extraordinary  favour,  admit  him  to  partake 
with  her  the  comforts  of  her  own  little  fire,  if  winter  it 
be,  or,  in  summer-time,  to  join  her  at  her  chamber-win- 
dow and  pass  away  the  starlight  hour  in  the  unwitnessed 
community  of  fond  hearts  ? 

Suppose,  to  obviate  unwelcome  surmises  and  too 
scrupulous  objections,  the  girl  makes  herself  a  wife,  but, 
because  their  poverty  will  not  enable  them  to  live  together, 
the  girl  merely  admits  the  chosen  youth  on  the  footing 
of  a  visitor? 

Suppose  her  hours  are  not  embittered  by  the  feelings 
of  dependence?  She  pays  an  ample  compensation  for 
her  entertainment,  and  by  her  occasional  company,  her 
superior  strength  of  mind  and  knowledge  of  the  world's 
ways,  she  materially  contributes  to  the  happiness  and 
safety  of  her  hostess. 

Suppose,  having  only  one  visitor,  and  he  sometimes 
wanting  in  zeal  and  punctuality,  much  of  her  time  is 
spent  alone  ?  Happily  she  is  exempt  from  the  humili- 
ating necessity  of  working  to  live,  and  is  not  obliged  to 


JANE   TALBOT.  117 

demand  a  share  of  the  earnings  of  her  husband.  Her 
task,  therefore,  will  be  to  find  amusement.  Can  she 
want  the  means,  thinkest  thou  ? 

The  sweet  quiet  of  her  chamber,  the  wholesome  airs 
from  abroad,  or  the  cheerful  blaze  of  her  hearth,  will 
invite  her  to  mental  exercise.  Perhaps  she  has  a  taste 
for  books,  and,  besides  that  pure  delight  which  know- 
ledge on  its  own  account  affords  her,  it  possesses  tenfold 
attractions  in  her  eyes,  by  its  tendency  to  heighten  the 
esteem  of  him  whom  she  lives  to  please. 

Perhaps,  rich  as  she  is  in  books,  she  is  an  economist 
of  pleasure,  and  tears  herself  away  from  them,  to  enjoy 
the  vernal  breezes,  or  the  landscape  of  autumn,  in  a 
twilight  ramble.  Here  she  communes  with  bounteous 
nature,  or  lifts  her  soul  in  devotion  to  her  God,  to  whose 
benignity  she  resigns  herself  as  she  used  to  do  to  the 
fond  arms  of  that  parent  she  has  lost. 

If  these  do  not  suffice  to  fill  up  her  time,  she  may 
chance  to  reflect  on  the  many  ways  in  which  she  may  be 
useful  to  herself.  She  may  find  delight  in  supplying  her 
own  wants ;  by  maintaining  cleanliness  and  order  all 
about  her;  by  making  up  her  own  dresses, — especially 
as  she  disdains  to  be  outdone  in  taste  and  expertness  at 
the  needle  by  any  female  in  the  land. 

By  limiting  in  this  way,  and  in  every  other  which  her 
judgment  may  recommend,  her  own  expenses,  she  will 
be  able  to  contribute  somewhat  to  relieve  the  toils  of  her 
beloved.  The  pleasure  will  be  hers  of  reflecting,  not 
only  that  her  love  adds  nothing  to  his  fatigues  and  cares ; 
not  only  that  her  tender  solicitudes  and  seasonable  counsel 
cherish  his  hopes  and  strengthen  his  courage,  but  that 
the  employment  of  her  hands  makes  his  own  separate 
subsistence  an  easier  task.  To  work  for  herself  will 
be  no  trivial  gratification  to  her  honest  pride,  but  to 
work  for  her  beloved  will,  indeed,  be  a  cause  of  exulta- 
tion. 

Twenty  things  she  may  do  for  him  which  others  must 
be  paid  for  doing,  not  in  caresses,  but  in  money;  and 
this  service,  though  not  small,  is  not  perhaps  the  greatest 
she  is  able  to  perform.  She  is  active  and  intelligent, 
perhaps,  and  may  even  aspire  to  the  profits  of  some 


118  JANE   TALBOT. 

trade.  What  is  it  that  makes  one  calling  more  lucrative 
than  another?  Not  superior  strength  of  shoulders  or 
sleight  of  hand ;  not  the  greater  quantity  of  brute  matter 
that  is  reduced  into  form  or  set  into  motion.  No.  The 
difference  lies  in  the  mental  powers  of  the  artist,  and  the 
direction  accidentally  given  to  these  powers. 

What  should  hinder  a  girl  like  this  from  growing  rich 
by  her  diligence  and  ingenuity  ?  She  has,  perhaps,  ac- 
quired many  arts  with  no  view  but  her  own  amusement. 
Not  a  little  did  her  mother  pay  to  those  who  taught  her 
to  draw  and  to  sing.  May  she  not  levy  the  same  tributes 
upon  others  that  were  levied  on  her,  and  make  a  business 
of  her  sports? 

There  is,  indeed,  a  calling  that  may  divert  her  from  the 
thoughts  of  mere  lucre.  She  may  talk  and  sing  for  an- 
other, and  dedicate  her  best  hours  to  a  tutelage  for  which 
there  is  a  more  precious  requital  than  money  can  give. 

Dost  not  see  her,  Hal  ?  I  do, — as  well  as  this  gush- 
ing sensibility  will  let  me, —  rocking  in  her  arms  and 
half  stifling  with  her  kisses,  or  delighting  with  her  lul- 
laby, a  precious  little  creature 

Why,  my  friend,  do  I  hesitate  ?  Do  I  not  write  for 
thy  eye,  and  thine  only  ?  and  what  is  there  but  pure  and 
sacred  in  the  anticipated  transports  of  a  mother  ? 

The  conscious  heart  might  stifle  its  throbs  in  thy 
presence ;  but  why  not  indulge  them  in  thy  absence,  and 
tell  thee  its  inmost  breathings,  not  without  a  shame- 
confessing  glow,  yet  not  without  drops  of  the  truest 
delight  that  were  ever  shed  ? 

Why,  how  now,  Jane  ?  whence  all  this  interest  in  the 
scene  thou  portrayest  ?  One  would  fancy  that  this  happy 
outcast,  this  self-dependent  wife,  was  no  other  than 
thyself. 

A  shrewd  conjecture,  truly.  I  suppose,  Hal,  thou 
wilt  be  fond  enough  to  guess  so,  too.  By  what  penalty 
shall  I  deter  thee  from  so  rash  a  thing?  yet  thou  art 
not  here — I  say  it  to  my  sorrow — to  suffer  the  penalty 
which  I  might  choose  ,to  inflict. 

I  will  not  say  what  it  is,  lest  the  fear  of  it  should 
keep  thee  away. 


JANE    TALBOT.  119 

And,  now  that  I  have  finished  the  history  of  Mrs. 
Henning  and  her  boarder,  I  will  bid  thee — good-night. 

Good good-night,  my  love. 

JANE  TALBOT. 


LETTER  XXXI. 

To  Henry  Colden. 

Philadelphia,  November  11. 

How  shall  I  tell  you  the  strange — strange  incident? 
Every  fibre  of  my  frame  still  trembles.  I  have  endea- 
voured, during  the  last  hour,  to  gain  tranquillity  enough 
for  writing,  but  without  success.  Yet  I  can  forbear  no 
longer :  I  must  begin. 

I  had  just  closed  my  last  to  you,  when  somebody 
knocked.  I  heard  footsteps  below,  as  the  girl  ushered 
in  the  visitant,  which  were  not  quite  unknown  to  me. 
The  girl  came  up: — "A  gentleman  is  waiting." 

"A  gentleman!"  thought  I.  "An  odd  hour  this"  (it 
was  past  ten)  "for  any  man  but  one  to  visit  me.  His 
business  must  be  very  urgent."  So,  indeed,  he  told  the 
girl  it  was,  for  she  knew  me  averse  to  company  at  any 
time,  and  I  had  withdrawn  to  my  chamber  for  the-  night ; 
but  he  would  not  be  eluded.  He  must  see  me,  he  said, 
this  night. 

A  tall  and  noble  figure,  in  a  foreign  uniform,  arose 
from  the  sofa  at  my  entrance.  The  half-extinct  lamp  on 
the  mantel  could  not  conceal  from  me — my  brother! 

My  surprise  almost  overpowered  me.  I  should  have 
sunk  upon  the  floor,  had  he  not  stepped  to  me  and  sus- 
tained me  in  his  arms. 

"I  see  you  are  surprised,  Jane,"  said  he,  in  a  tone 
not  without  affection  in  it.  "You  did  not  expect,  I  sup- 
pose, ever  to  see  me  again.  It  was  a  mere  chance  brought 
me  to  America.  I  shall  stay  here  a  moment,  and  then 
hie  me  back  again.  I  could  not  pass  through  the  city 
without  a  '  How  d'ye'  to  the  little  girl  for  whom  I  have 
still  some  regard." 

The  violence  of  my  emotions  found  relief  in  a  flood 


120  JANE    TALBOT. 

of  tears.  He  was  not  unmoved,  but,  embracing  me  with 
tenderness,  he  seated  me  by  him  on  the  sofa. 

When  I  had  leisure  to  survey  his  features,  I  found 
that  time  had  rather  improved  his  looks.  They  were 
less  austere,  less  contemptuous,  than  they  used  to  be: 
perhaps,  indeed,  it  was  only  a  momentary  remission  of 
his  customary  feelings. 

To  my  rapid  and  half-coherent  questions,  he  replied, 
"I  landed — you  need  not  know  where.  My  commission 
requires  secrecy,  and  you  know  I  have  personal  reasons 
for  wishing  to  pass  through  this  city  without  notice. 
My  business  did  not  bring  mo  farther  southward  than 
New  London ;  but  I  heard  your  mother  resided  in  New 
York,  and  could  not  leave  the  country  without  seeing 
you.  I  called  on  her  yesterday ;  but  she  looked  so  grave 
and  talked  so  obscurely  about  you,  that  I  could  not  do 
less  than  come  hither.  She  told  me  you  were  here. 
How  have  been  affairs  since  I  left  you?" 

I  answered  this  question  vaguely. 

"Pray,"  (with  much  earnestness,)  "are  you  married 
yet?" 

The  confusion  with  which  I  returned  an  answer  to  this 
did  not  escape  him. 

"I  asked  Mrs.  Fielder  the  same  question,  and  she 
talked  as  if  it  were  a  doubtful  point.  She  could  not 
tell,  she  said,  with  a  rueful  physiognomy.  Very  pro- 
bable it  might  be  so.  I  could  not  bring  her  to  be  more 
explicit.  As  I  proposed  to  see  you,  she  said,  you  were 
the  fittest  person  to  explain  your  own  situation.  This 
made  me  the  more  anxious  to  see  you.  Pray,  Jane,  how 
do  matters  stand  between  you  and  Mrs.  Fielder?  are  you 
not  on  as  good  terms  as  formerly?" 

I  answered,  that  some  difference  had  unhappily  occurred 
between  us,  that  I  loved  and  revered  her  as  much  as  ever, 
and  hoped  that  we  should  soon  be  mother  and  daughter 
again. 

"But  the  cause? — the  cause,  Jane?  Is  a  lover  the 
bone  of  contention  between  you?  That's  the  rock  on 
which  family  harmony  is  sure  to  be  wrecked.  But  tell 
me  :  what  have  you  quarrelled  about?" 

How  could  I  explain  on  such  a  subject,  thus  abruptly 


JANE    TALBOT.  121 

introduced  to  him  ?  I  told  him  it  was  equally  painful 
and  useless  to  dwell  on  ray  contentions  with  my  mother, 
or  on  my  own  affairs.  "Rather  let  me  hear,"  said  I, 
"how  it  fares  with  you;  what  fortunes  you  have  met  with 
in  this  long  absence." 

"Pretty  well;  pretty  well.  Many  a  jade's  trick  did 
Fortune  play  me  before  I  left  this  spot,  but  ever  since,  it 
has  been  all  smooth  and  bright  with  me.  But  this  mar- 
riage— Art  thou  a  wife  or  not  ?  I  heard,  I  think,  some 
talk  about  a  Talbot.  What's  become  of  him  ?  They  said 
you  were  engaged  to  him." 

"It  is  long  since  the  common  destiny  has  ended  all 
Talbot's  engagements." 

"  Dead,  is  he  ?  Well,  a  new  aspirer,  I  suppose,  has  suc- 
ceeded, and  he  is  the  bone  of  contention.  Who's  he  ?" 

I  could  not  bear  that  a  subject  of  such  deep  concern  to 
me  should  be  discussed  thus  lightly,  and  therefore  begged 
him  to  change  the  subject. 

"  Change  the  subject?  With  all  my  heart,  if  we  can 
find  any  more  important ;  but  that's  impossible.  So  we 
must  even  stick  to  this  a  little  longer.  Come ;  what's  his 
parentage;  fortune;  age;  character;  profession?  'Tis 
not  likely  I  shall  find  fault  where  Mrs.  Fielder  does. 
Young  men  and  old  women  seldom  hit  upon  the  same 
choice  in  a  husband;  and,  for  my  part,  I  am  easily 
pleased." 

"  This  is  a  subject,  brother,  on  which  it  is  impossible 
that  we  should  think  alike ;  nor  is  it  necessary.  Let  us 
then  talk  of  something  in  which  we  have  a  common  con- 
cern; something  that  has  a  claim  to  interest  you." 

"  What  subject,  girl,  can  have  a  stronger  claim  on  my 
attention  than  the  marriage  of  my  sister  ?  I  am  not  so 

tiddy  and  unprincipled  as  to  be  unconcerned  on  that  head, 
o  make  no  more  ado,  but  tell  your  brother  candidly  what 
are  your  prospects." 

After  some  hesitation, — "  My  real  brother^one  who 
had  the  tenderness  becoming  that  relation — would  cer- 
tainly deserve  my  confidence.  But =-" 

"But  what  ?    Come  ;  never  mince  the  matter.     I  have 
scarcely  been  half  a  brother  hitherto,  I  grant  you.     More 
of  an  enemy,  perhaps,  than  friend ;  but  no  reason  why 
i1 


122  JANE   TALBOT. 

I  should  continue  hostile  or  indifferent.  So  tell  me  whc 
the  lad  is,  and  what  are  his  pretensions." 

I  endeavoured  to  draw  him  off  to  some  other  subject, 
but  he  would  not  be  diverted  from  this.  By  dint  of  in- 
terrogatories, he  at  last  extorted  from  me  a  few  hints  re- 
specting you.  Finding  that  you  were  without  fortune  or 
profession,  and  that  my  regard  for  you  had  forfeited  all 
favour  with  my  mother,  the  inquiry  was  obvious,  how  we 
meant  to  live.  It  was  impossible  to  answer  this  question 
in  any  manner  satisfactory  to  him.  He  has  no  notion  of 
existence  unconnected  with  luxury  and  splendour. 

"  Have  you  made  any  acquisitions,"  continued  he, 
"since  I  saw  you?  Has  any  good  old  aunt  left  you 
another  legacy  ?" — This  was  said  with  the  utmost  vivacity 
and  self-possession.  A  strange  being  is  my  brother. 
Could  he  have  forgotten  by  whom  I  was  robbed  of  my 
former  legacy  ? 

"  Come,  come  ;  I  know  thou  art  a  romantic  being, — 
one  accustomed  to  feed  on  thoughts  instead  of  pudding. 
Contentment  and  a  cottage  are  roast  beef  and  a  palace 
to  thee  ;  but,  take  my  word  for  it,  this  inamorata  of  thine 
will  need  a  more  substantial  diet.  By  marrying  him  you 
will  only  saddle  him  with  misery.  So  drop  all  thoughts 
of 'so  silly  a  scheme;  write  him  a  ;good-by ;'  make  up 
your  little  matters,  and  come  along  with  me.  I  will  take 
you  to  my  country,  introduce  you  to  a  new  world,  and 
bring  to  your  feet  hundreds  of  generous  souls,  the  least 
of  whom  is  richer,  wiser,  handsomer,  than  this  tame- 
spirited,  droning  animal — what's  his  name?  But  no 
matter.  I  suppose  I  know  nothing  of  him." 

I  was  rash  enough  to  tell  him  your  name  and  abode,  but 
I  treated  his  proposal  as  a  jest.  I  quickly  found  that  he 
was  serious.  He  soon  became  extremely  urgent;  re- 
counted the  advantages  of  his  condition;  the  charming 
qualities  of  his  wife;  the  security  and  splendour  of  his 
new  rank.  He  endeavoured  to  seduce  my  vanity  by  the 
prospect  of  the  conquest  I  should  make  in  that  army 
of  colonels,  philosophers,  and  commissioners  that  formed 
the  circle  of  his  friends.  "Any  man  but  a  brother,"  said 
he,  "must  own  that  you  are  a  charming  creature.  So 
you  need  only  come  and  see,  in  order  to  conquer." 


JANE   TALBOT.  123 

His  importunities  increased  as  my  reluctance  became 
more  evident.  Thoughtless  as  I  supposed  him  to  be,  he 
said,  the  wish  to  find  me  out,  carry  me  to  France,  and 
put  me  in  Fortune's  way,  was  no  inconsiderable  induce- 
ment with  him  to  accept  the  commission  which  brought 
him  to  America.  He  insinuated  that  brothership  and 
eldership  gave  him  something  like  a  title  to  paternal  au- 
thority, and  insisted  on  obedience. 

The  contest  became  painful.  Impatience  and  reproach 
on  his  side  awakened  the  like  sentiments  in  me,  and  it  cost 
me  many  efforts  to  restrain  my  feelings.  Alternately  he 
commanded  and  persuaded ;  was  willing  to  be  governed  by 
my  mother's  advice ;  would  carry  me  forthwith  to  New 
York ;  would  lay  before  her  his  proposal,  and  be  governed 
by  her  decision.  The  public  vessel  that  brought  him  lay 
at  Newport,  waiting  his  return.  Every  possible  accommo- 
dation and  convenience  was  possessed  by  the  ship.  It 
was  nothing  but  a  sailing  palace,  in  which  the  other  pas- 
sengers were  merely  his  guests,  selected  by  himself. 

I  was  a  fool  for  refusing  his  offer.  A  simpleton.  The 
child  of  caprice,  whom  no  time  could  render  steadfast  ex- 
cept in  folly;  into  whom  no  counsel  or  example  could 
instil  an  atom  of  common  sense.  He  supposed  my  man 
was  equally  obstinate  and  stupid ;  but  he  would  soon  see 
of  what  stuff  he  was  made.  He  would  hurry  to  Balti- 
more, and  take  the  boy  to  task  for  his  presumption  and 
insolence  in  aspiring  to  Jane  Talbot  without  her  brother's 
consent. 

He  snatched  up  his  hat ;  but  this  intimation  alarmed 
me.  "  Pray,  stay  one  moment,  brother.  Be  more  con- 
siderate. What  right  can  you  possibly  have  to  interfere 
with  Mr.  Colden's  concerns  ?  Talk  to  me  as  much  and 
in  what  style  you  please ;  but,  I  beseech  you,  insult  not 
a  man  who  never  offended  you." 

Perceiving  my  uneasiness  on  this  head,  he  took  advan- 
tage of  it  to  renew  his  solicitations  for  my  company  to 
France, — swore  solemnly  that  no  man  should  have  his 
sister  without  his  consent,  and  that  he  would  force  the 
boy  to  give  me  up. 

This  distressing  altercation  ended  by  his  going  away, 
declaring,  in  spite  of  my  entreaties,  that  he  would  see 


124  JANE    T ALEUT. 

you,  and  teach  your  insolence  a  lesson  not  easily  for- 
gotten. 

To  sleep  after  this  interview  was  impossible.  I  could 
hardly  still  my  throbbing  heart  sufficiently  to  move  tlie 
pen.  You  cannot  hear  from  me  in  time  to  avoid  this  mad- 
man, or  to  fortify  yourself  against  an  interview.  I  can- 
not confute  the  false  or  cunning  glosses  he  may  make  upon 
my  conduct.  He  may  represent  me  to  you  as  willing  to 
accompany  him  ;  as  detained  only  by  my  obligation  to  you, 
from  which  it  is  in  your  power  to  absolve  me. 

Till  I  hear  from  you  I  shall  have  no  peace.  Would  to 
Heaven  there  was  some  speedier  conveyance ! 

JANE  TALBOT. 


LETTER  XXXII. 

To  Jane  Talbot. 

Baltimore,  November  14. 

LET  me  overlook  your  last  *letter  for  the  present, 
while  I  mention  to  you  a  most  unexpected  and  surprising 
.circumstance.  It  has  just  happened.  I  have  parted 
with  my  visitant  but  this  moment. 

I  had  strolled  to  the  bank  of  the  river,  and  was  lean- 
ing idly  on  a  branch  of  an  apple-tree  that  hung  pretty 
low,  when  I  noticed  some  one  coming  hastily  towards  me : 
there  was  something  striking  and  noble  in  the  air  and 
figure  of  the  man. 

When  he  came  up,  he  stopped.  I  was  surprised  to 
find  myself  the  object  of  which  ho  was  in  search.  I  found 
afterwards  that  he  had  inquired  for  me  at  my  lodgings, 
and  had  been  directed  to  look  for  me  in  this  path.  A  dis- 
tinct view  of  his  features  saved  him  the  trouble  of  telling 
me  that  he  was  your  brother.  However,  that  was  informa- 
tion that  he  thought  proper  immediately  to  communicate. 
He  was  your  brother,  he  said ;  I  was  Golden ;  I  had  pre- 
tensions to  you,  which  your  brother  was  entitled  to  know, 
to  discuss,  and  to  pronounce  upon.  Such,  in  about  as 

*  Letter  XXX. 


JANE  TALBOT.  125 

many  words,  was  his  introduction  to  me,  and  he  waited 
for  my  answer  with  much  impatience. 

I  was  greatly  confused  by  these  sudden  and  uncere- 
monious intimations.  At  last  I  told  him  that  all  that  he 
had  said  respecting  my  connection  with  his  sister  was 
true.  It  was  a  fact  that  all  the  world  was  welcome  to 
know.  Of  course  I  had  no  objection  to  her  brother's 
knowing  it. 

But  what  were  my  claims  ?  what  my  merits,  my  pro- 
fession, my  fortune  ?  On  all  these  heads  a  brother  would 
naturally  require  to  be  thoroughly  informed. 

"As  to  my  character,  sir,  you  will  hardly  expect  any 
satisfactory  information  from  my  own  mouth.  However, 
it  may  save  you  the  trouble  of  applying  to  others,  when 
I  tell  you  that  my  character  has  as  many  slurs  and  blots 
in  it  as  any  you  ever  met  with.  A  more  versatile,  in- 
consistent, prejudiced,  and  faulty  person  than  myself,  I 
do  not  believe  the  earth  to  contain.  Profession  I  have 
none,  and  am  not  acquiring  any,  nor  expect  ever  to 
acquire.  Of  fortune  I  am  wholly  destitute:  not  a 
farthing  have  I,  either  in  possession  or  reversion." 

"Then,  pray,  sir,  on  what  are  built  your  pretensions 
to  my  sister?" 

"Really,  sir,  they  are  built  on  nothing.  I  am,  in 
every  respect,  immeasurably  her  inferior.  I  possess  not 
a  single  merit  that  entitles  me  to  grace  from  her." 

"1  have  surely  not  been  misinformed.  She  tacitly 
admitted  that  she  was  engaged  to  be  your  wife." 

" 'Tis  very  true.     She  is  so." 

"But  Avhat,  then,  is  the  basis  of  this  engagement?" 

"Mutual  affection,  I  believe,  is  the  only  basis.  Nobody 
who  knows  Jane  Talbot  will  need  to  ask  why  she  is  be- 
loved. Why  she  requites  that  passion  in  the  present 
case,  is  a  question  which  she  only  can  answer." 

"Her  passion,  sir,"  (contemptuously,)  "is  the  freak 
of  a  child ;  of  folly  and  caprice.  By  your  own  confession 
you  are  beggarly  and  worthless,  and  therefore  it  becomes 
you  to  relinquish  your  claim." 

"I  have   no  claim  to  relinquish.     I  have  urged  no 
claims.     On  the  contrary,  I  have  fully  disclosed  to  her 
every  folly  and  vice  that  cleaves  to  my  character." 
II* 


126  JANE   TALBOT. 

"You  know,  sir,  what  I  mean." 

"  I  am  afraid  not  perfectly.  If  you  mean  that  I  should 
profess  myself  unworthy  of  your  sister's  favour,  'tis  done. 
It  has  been  done  a  hundred  times." 

"My  meaning,  sir,  is  simply  this:  that  you,  from  this 
moment,  give  up  every  expectation  of  being  the  husband 
of  Mrs.  Talbot.  That  you  return  to  her  every  letter  and 
paper  that  has  passed  between  you;  that  you  drop  all 
intercourse  and  correspondence." 

I  Avas  obliged  to  stifle  a  laugh  which  this  whimsical 
proposal  excited.  I  continued,  through  this  whole  dia- 
logue, to  regard  my  companion  with  a  steadfast  and 
cheerful  gravity. 

"These  are  injunctions,"  said  I,  "that  will  hardly 
meet  with  compliance,  unless,  indeed,  they  were  imposed 
by  the  lady  herself.  .  I  shall  always  have  a  supreme  re- 
gard for  her  happiness;  and  whatever  path  she  points 
out  to  me,  I  will  walk  in  it." 

"But  this  is  the  path  in  which  her  true  interest  requires 
you  to  walk." 

"I  have  not  yet  discovered  that  to  be  lier  opinion;  the 
moment  I  do,  I  will  walk  in  it  accordingly." 

"No  matter  what  her  opinion  is.  She  is  froward  and 
obstinate.  It  is  my  opinion  that  her  true  happiness  re- 
quires all  connection  between  you  to  cease  from  this 
moment." 

"After  all,  sir,  though,  where  judgments  differ,  one 
only  can  be  right,  yet  each  person  must  be  permitted  to 
follow  his  own.  You  would  hardly,  I  imagine,  allow  your 
sister  to  prescribe  to  you  in  your  marriage  choice,  and  I 
fear  she  will  lay  claim  to  the  same  independence  for  her- 
self. If  you  can  convert  her  to  your  way  of  thinking, 
it  is  well.  I  solemnly  engage  to  do  whatever  she  directs." 

"This  is  insolence.  You  trifle  with  me.  You  pretend 
to  misconstrue  my  meaning." 

"  When  you  charge  me  with  insolence,  I  think  you 
afford  pretty  strong  proof  that  you  mistake  my  meaning. 
I  have  not  the  least  intention  to  offend  you." 

"  Let  me  be  explicit  with  you.  Do  you  instantly  and 
absolutely  resign  all  pretensions  to  my  sister?" 

"I  will  endeavour  to  be  explicit  in  my  turn.     Your 


JAXE    TALBOT.  127 

sister,  notwithstanding  my  defects  and  disadvantages, 
offers  rne  her  love,  vows  to  be  mine.  I  accept  her  love ; 
she  is  mine ;  nor  need  we  to  discuss  the  matter  any  fur- 
ther." 

This,  however,  by  no  means  put  an  end  to  altercation. 
I  told  him  I  was  willing  to  hear  all  that  he  had  to  say 
upon  the  subject.  If  truth  were  on  his  side,  it  was  possi- 
ble he  might  reason  me  into  a  concurrence  with  him.  In 
compliance  with  this  concession,  he  dwelt  on  the  benefits 
which  his  sister  would  receive  from  accompanying  him  to 
France,  and  the  mutual  sorrow,  debasement,  and  per- 
plexity likely  to  flow  from  a  union  between  us,  unsanctioned 
by  the  approbation  of  our  common  friends. 

"The  purpose  of  all  this  is  to  prove,"  said  I,  "that 
affluence  and  dignity  without  me  will  be  more  conducive 
to  your  sister's  happiness  than  obscurity  and  indigence 
with  me." 

It  was. 

"Happiness  is  mere  matter  of  opinion;  perhaps  Jane 
thinks  already  as  you  do." 

He  alloAved  that  he  had  talked  with  you  ineffectually 
on  that  subject. 

"I  think  myself  bound  to  believe  her  in  a  case  where 
she  is  the  proper  judge,  and  shall  eagerly  consent  to  make 
her  happy  in  her  own  way.  That,  sir,  is  my  decision." 

I  will  not  repeat  the  rest  of  our  conversation.  Your 
letters  have  given  me  some  knowledge  of  your  brother, 
and  I  endeavoured  by  the  mildness,  sedateness,  and 
firmness  of  my  carriage  to  elude  those  extremes  to 
which  his  domineering  passions  were  likely  to  carry  him. 
I  carefully  avoided  every  thing  that  tended  in  the  least 
to  exasperate.  He  was  prone  enough  to  rage,  but  I 
quietly  submitted  to  all  that  he  could  say.  I  was  sincerely 
rejoiced  when  the  conference  came  to  an  end. 

Whence  came  your  brother  thus  abruptly  ?  Have  you 
seen  him  ?  Yet  he  told  me  that  you  had.  Alas !  what 
must  you  have  suffered  from  his  impetuosity ! 

I  look  with  impatience  for  your  next  letter,  in  which 
you  will  tell  what  has  happened. 


128  JANE    TALBOT. 


LETTER  XXXIII. 

To  Henry  Colden. 

Philadelphia,  November  17. 

I  HAVE  just  sent  you  a  letter,  but  my  restless  spirit 
can  find  no  relief  but  in  writing. 

I  torment  myself  without  end  in  imagining  what  took 
place  at  your  meeting  with  my  brother.  I  rely  upon 
your  equanimity;  yet  to  what  an  insupportable  test  will 
my  brother's  passions  subject  you !  In  how  many  ways 
have  I  been  the  cause  of  pain  and  humiliation  to  you ! 
Heaven,  I  hope,  will  some  time  grant  me  the  power  to 
compensate  you  for  all  that  I  have  culpably  or  innocently 
made  you  suffer. 

What's  this?  A  letter  from  my  brother !  The  super- 
scription is  his. 

****** 

Let  me  hasten,  my  friend,  to  give  you  a  copy  of  this 
strange  epistle.  It  has  neither  date  nor  signature. 

"I  have  talked  with  the  man  whom  you  have  chosen 
to  play  the  fool  with.  I  find  him  worthy  of  his  mistress ; 
a  tame,  coward-hearted,  infatuated  blockhead. 

"It  was  silly  to  imagine  that  any  arguments  would 
have  weight  with  you  or  with  him.  I  have  got  my  jour- 
ney for  my  pains.  Fain  would  I  have  believed  that  you 
were  worthy  of  a  different  situation;  but  I  dismiss  that 
belief,  and  shall  henceforth  leave  you  to  pursue  your  own 
dirty  road,  without  interruption. 

"Had  you  opened  your  eyes  to  your  true  interest,  I 
think  I  could  have  made  something  of  you.  My  wealth 
and  my  influence  should  not  have  been  spared  in  placing 
you  in  a  station  worthy  of  my  sister.  Every  one,  how- 
ever, must  take  his  own  way, — though  it  lead  him  into  a 
slough  or  a  ditch. 

"I  intended  to  have  virtually  divided  my  fortune  with 
you;  to  have  raised  you  to  princely  grandeur.  But  no; 
you  are  enamoured  of  the  dirt,  and  may  cling  to  it  as 
closely  as  you  please. 

"It  is  but  justice,  however,  to  pay  Avhat  I  owe  you. 


JANE    TALBOT.  129 

I  remember  I  borrowed  several  sums  of  you ;  the  whole 
amounted  to  fifteen  hundred  dollars.  There  they  are, 
and  much  good  may  they  do  you.  That  sum  and  the 
remnant  which  I  left  you  may  perhaps  set  the  good  man 
up  in  a  village  shop, — may  purchase  an  assortment  of 
tapes,  porringers,  and  twelve-to-the-pound  candles.  The 
gleanings  of  the  year  may  find  you  in  skimmed  milk  and 
hasty  pudding  three  times  a  day,  and  you  may  enjoy 
between  whiles  the  delectable  amusements  of  mending 
your  husband's  stockings  at  one  time,  and  serving  a 
neighbour  with  a  pennyworth  of  snuff  at  another. 

"Fare  thee  well,  Jane.  Farewell  forever;  for  it  must 
be  a  stronger  inducement  than  can  possibly  happen,  that 
shall  ever  bring  me  back  to  this  land.  I  would  see  you 
ere  I  go,  but  we  shall  only  scold;  so,  once  more,  fare- 
well, simpleton." 

What  think  you  of  this  letter?  The  enclosed  bills 
were  most  unexpected  and  acceptable  presents.  I  am 
now  twice  as  rich  as  I  was.  This  visit  of  my  brother 
I  was  disposed  to  regret,  but  on  the  Avhole  I  ought,  I 
think,  to  regard  it  with  satisfaction.  By  thus  completely 
repairing  the  breach  made  in  my  little  patrimony,  it  has 
placed  me  in  as  good  a  situation  as  I  ever  hoped  to  en- 
joy ;  besides,  it  has  removed  from  my  brother's  character 
some  of  the  stains  which  used  to  discolour  it.  Ought  I 
not  to  believe  him  sincere  in  his  wishes  to  do  me  service  ? 
We  cannot  agree  exactly  in  our  notion  of  duty  or  happi- 
ness, but  that  difference  takes  not  away  from  him  the 
merit  of  a  generous  intention.  Pie  would  have  done  me 
good  in  his  way. 

Methinks  I  am  sorry  he  is  gone.  I  would  fain  have 
parted  with  him  as  a  sister  ought.  A  few  tears  and  a 
few  blessings  were  not  unworthy  such  an  occasion.  Most 
fervently  should  I  have  poured  my  blessings  upon  him. 
I  wish  he  had  indulged  me  with  another  visit ;  especially 
as  we  were  to  part,  it  seems,  forever.  One  more  visit 
and  a  kind  embrace  from  my  only  brother  would  have 
been  kept  in  melancholy,  sweet  remembrance. 

Perhaps  we  shall  meet  again.  Perhaps,  some  day, 
thou  and  I  shall  go  to  France.  We  will  visit  him  to- 
gether, and  witness,  with  our  own  eyes,  his  good  fortune. 


130  JANE   TALBOT. 

Time  may  make  him  gentle,  kind,  considerate,  brotherly. 
Time  has  effected  greater  wonders  than  that;  for  I  will 
always  maintain  that  my  brother  has  a  noble  nature : 
stifled  and  obscured  it  may  be,  but  not  extinguished. 


LETTER  XXXIV. 

To  Henry  Golden. 

Philadelphia,  November  18. 

How  little  is  the  equanimity  or  patience  that  nature 
has  allotted  me  !  Thy  entrance  now  would  find  me  quite 
peevish.  Yet  I  do  not  fear  thy  entrance.  Always  anx- 
ious as  I  am  to  be  amiable  in  your  eyes,  I  am  at  no  pains 
to  conceal  from  you  that  impatience  which  now  vexes 
my  soul,  because  it  is  your  absence  that  occasions  it. 

I  sat  alone  on  the  sofa  below,  for  a  whole  hour.  Not 
once  was  the  bell  rung  ;  not  once  did  my  fluttering  heart 
answer  to  footsteps  in  the  passage.  I  had  no  need  to 
start  up  at  the  opening  of  the  parlour-door,  and  to  greet, 
as  distinctly  as  the  joyous  tumult  of  my  bosom  would 
suffer  me,  the  much-loved,  long-expected  visitant. 

Yet,  deceived  by  my  fond  heart  into  momentary  for- 
getfulness  of  the  interval  of  a  hundred  miles  that  lies 
between  us,  more  than  once  I  cast  a  glance  behind  me, 
and  started,  as  if  the  hoped-for  peal  had  actually  been 
rung. 

Tired,  at  length,  of  my  solitude,  where  I  had  enjoyed 
your  company  so  often,  I  covered  up  the  coals  and  with- 
drew to  my  chamber.  "And  here,"  said  I,  "though  I 
cannot  talk  to  him,  yet  I  can  write." 

But  first,  I  read  over  again  this  cruel  letter  of  my 
mother.  I  weighed  all  the  contents,  and  especially  those 
heavy  charges  against  you. 

How  does  it  fall  out  that  the  same  object  is  viewed  by 
two  observers  with  such  opposite  sensations  ?  That  what 
one  hates,  the  other  should  dote  upon  ? — two  of  the  same 
sex;  one  cherished  from  infancy,  reared,  modelled, 
taught  to  think,  feel,  and  even  to  speak,  by  the  other: 
acting  till  now,  and  even  now  acting  in  all  respects 


JANE    TALBOT.  131 

but  one,  in  inviolable  harmony ;  that  two  such  should  jar 
and  thwart  each  other,  in  a  point,  too,  in  respect  to 
which  the  whole  tendency  and  scope  of  the  daughter's 
education  was  to  produce  a  fellow-feeling  with  the  mother. 
How  hard  to  be  accounted  for !  how  deeply  to  be  rued ! 

I  sometimes  catch  myself  trembling  with  solicitude 
lest  I  should  have  erred.  Am  I  not  betrayed  by  pas- 
sion ?  can  I  claim  the  respect  due  to  that  discernment 
Avhich  I  once  boasted? 

I  cannot  blame  my  mother.  She  acts  and  determines, 
as  I  sometimes  believe,  without  the  benefits  of  my  know- 
ledge. Did  she  know  as  much  as  I  know,  surely  she 
would  think  as  I  do. 

In  general,  this  conclusion  seems  to  be  just;  but  there 
are  moments  when  doubts  insinuate  themselves.  I  can- 
not help  remembering  the  time  when  I  reasoned  like  my 
mother ;  when  the  belief  of  a  Christian  seemed  essential 
to  every  human  excellence.  All  qualities,  without  that 
belief,  were  not  to  be  despised  as  useless,  but  to  be  ab- 
horred as  pernicious.  There  would  be  no  virtue,  no 
merit,  divorced  from  religion.  In  proportion  to  the  spe- 
ciousness  of  his  qualities  was  he  to  be  dreaded.  The 
fruit,  whatever  form  it  should  assume,  was  nothing 
within  but  bane,  and  was  to  be  detested  and  shunned  in 
proportion  as  the  form  was  fair  and  its  promises  de- 
licious. 

I  seldom  trusted  myself  to  inquire  how  it  was  my  duty 
to  act  towards  one  whom  I  loved,  but  who  was  destitute 
of  this  grace ;  for  of  such  moment  was  the  question  to 
me,  that  I  imagined  the  decision  would  necessarily  pre- 
cede all  others.  I  could  not  love  till  I  had  investigated 
this  point,  and  no  force  could  oblige  me  to  hold  com- 
munion with  a  soul  whom  this  defect  despoiled  of  all 
beauty  and  devoted  to  perdition. 

But  what  now  is  the  change  that  time  and  passion 
have  wrought !  I  have  found  a  man  without  religion. 
What  I  supposed  impossible  has  happened.  I  love  the 
man.  I  cannot  give  him  up.  The  mist  that  is  before 
my  eyes  does  not  change  what  was  once  vice  into  virtue. 
I  do  not  cease  to  regard  unbelief  as  the  blackest  stain, 
as  the  most  deplorable  calamity  that  can  befall  a  human 


132  JANE    TALBOT. 

creature;  but  still  I  love  the  man,  and  that  fills  me  "with 
unconquerable  zeal  to  rescue  him  from  this  calamity. 

But  my  mother  interferes.  She  reminds  me  of  the 
horror  which  I  once  entertained  for  men  of  your  tenets. 
She  enjoins  me  to  hate  you,  or  to  abhor  myself  for  loving 
one  worthy  of  nothing  but  hatred. 

I  cannot  do  either.  My  heart  is  still  yours,  and  it  is 
a  voluntary  captive.  I  would  not  free  it  from  its  thral- 
dom, if  I  could.  Neither  do  I  think  its  captivity  dis- 
honours it.  Time,  therefore,  has  wrought  some  change. 
I  can  now  discover  some  merit,  something  to  revere  and 
to  love,  even  in  a  man  without  religion.  I  find  my  whole 
soul  penetrated  with  zeal  for  his  welfare.  There  is  no 
scheme  which  I  muse  upon  with  half  the  constancy  or 
pleasure,  as  that  of  curing  his  errors;  and  I  am  con- 
fident of  curing  them. 

"Ah,  Jane,"  says  my  mother;  "rash  and  presump- 
tuous girl,  what  a  signal  punishment  hangs  over  thee ! 
Thou  wilt  trust  thyself  within  the  toils  of  the  grand 
deceiver.  Thou  wilt  enter  the  list  with  his  subtleties. 
Vain  and  arrogant,  thou  fearest  not  thy  own  weakness. 
Thou  wilt  stake  thy  eternal  lot  upon  thy  triumph  in 
argument  against  one  who,  in  spite  of  all  his  candour 
and  humility,  has  his  pride  and  his  passions  engaged  on 
the  side  of  his  opinions. 

"Subtle  wretch !"  does  she  exclaim;  "accomplished 
villain !  How  nicely  does  he  select,  how  adroitly  ma- 
nage, his  tools !  He  will  oppose,  only  to  yield  more 
gracefully.  He  will  argue,  only  that  the  rash  simpleton 
may  the  more  congratulate  herself  upon  her  seeming 
victory  !  How  easy  is  the  verbal  assent, — the  equivo- 
cating accent, — the  hesitating  air !  These  he  will  as- 
sume whenever  it  is  convenient  to  lull  your  fears  and 
gratify  your  vanity ;  and  nothing  but  the  uniformity  of 
his  conduct,  his  continuance  in  the  same  ignominious  and 
criminal  path,  will  open  your  eyes,  and  show  you  that 
only  grace  from  above  can  reach  his  obdurate  heart,  or 
dart  a  ray  into  his  benighted  faculties." 

Will  you  be  surprised  that  I  shudder  when  my  mother 
urges  me  in  this  strain,  with  her  customary  energy  ?  Al- 
ways wont  to  be  obsequious  to  the  very  turn  of  her  eye, 


JANE    TALBOT.  133 

and  to  make  her  will  not  only  the  regulator  of  my  actions, 
but  the  criterion  of  my  understanding,  it  is  impossible 
not  to  hesitate,  to  review  all  that  has  passed  between  us, 
and  reconsider  anew  the  motives  that  have  made  me  act 
as  I  have  acted. 

Yet  the  review  always  confirms  me  in  my  first  opinion. 
You  err,  but  are  not  obstinate  in  error.  If  your  opinions 
be  adverse  to  religion,  your  affections  are  not  wholly  es- 
tranged from  it.  Your  understanding  dissents,  but  your 
heart  is  not  yet  persuaded  to  refuse.  You  have  powers, 
irresistible  in  whatever  direction  they  are  bent ;  capable 
of  giving  the  highest  degree  of  misery  or  happiness  to 
yourself  and  to  others.  At  present  they  are  misdirected 
or  inactive ;  they  are  either  pernicious  or  useless. 

How  can  I,  who  have  had  ample  opportunities  of  know- 
ing you,  stand  by  with  indifference  while  such  is  your 
state?  I  love  you,  it  is  true.  All  your  felicity  and  all 
your  woe  become  mine.  I  have  a  selfish  interest  in  your 
welfare.  I  cannot  bear  the  thought  of  passing  through 
this  world,  or  of  entering  any  future  world,  without  you. 
My  heart  has  tried  in  vain  to  create  a  separate  interest, 
to  draw  consolation  from  a  different  source.  Hence  in- 
difference to  your  Avelfare  is  impossible.  But  would  not 
indifference,  even  if  no  extraordinary  tie  subsisted  between 
us,  be  criminal?  What  becomes  of  our  obligation  to  do 
good  to  others,  if  we  do  not  exert  ourselves,  when  all  the 
means  are  in  our  power,  to  confer  the  most  valuable  of 
all  benefits,  to  remove  the  greatest  of  all  ills? 

Of  what  stuff  must  that  heart  be  made  which  can  be- 
hold, unmoved,  genius  and  worth,  destitute  of  the  joys 
and  energies  of  religion ;  wandering  in  a  maze  of  passions 
and  doubts ;  devoured  by  fantastic  repinings  and  vague  re- 
grets ;  drearily  conscious  of  wanting  a  foundation  whereon 
to  repose,  a  guide  in  whom  to  trust?  What  heart  can 
gaze  at  such  a  spectacle  without  unspeakable  compas- 
sion ? 

Not  to  have  our  pity  and  our  zeal  awakened  seems  to 
me  to  argue  the  utmost  depravity  of  heart.  No  stronger 
proof  can  be  given  that  we  ourselves  are  destitute  of  true 
religion.  The  faith  or  the  practice  must  be  totally  want- 
ing. WTe  may  talk  devoutly ;  we  may  hie,  in  due  season, 
12 


134  JANE    TAJ. BUT. 

to  the  house  of  prayer ;  while  there,  we  may  put  on  solemn 
visages  and  mutter  holy  names.  We  may  abstain  from 
profane  amusements  or  unauthorized  words ;  we  may  shun, 
as  infections,  the  company  of  unbelievers.  We  may  study 
homilies  and  creeds ;  but  all  this,  without  rational  activity 
for  others'  good,  is  not  religion.  I  see,  in  all  this,  no- 
thing that  I  am  accustomed  to  call  by  that  name. 

I  see  nothing  but  a  narrow  selfishness ;  sentiments  of 
fear  degrading  to  the  Deity ;  a  bigotry  that  contracts  the 
view,  that  freezes  the  heart,  that  shuts  up  the  avenues  to 
benevolent  and  generous  feeling.  This  buckram  stiffness 
does  not  suit  me.  Out  upon  such  monastic  parade !  I 
will  have  none  of  it. 

But  then,  it  seems,  there  is  danger  to  ourselves  from 
such  attempts.  In  trying  to  save  another  from  drowning, 
may  we  not  sometimes  be  drawn  in  ourselves?  Are  we 
not  taught  to  deprecate,  not  only  evil,  but  temptation  to 
evil? 

What  madness,  to  trust  our  convictions,  in  a  point  of 
such  immense  importance,  to  the  contest  of  argument 
with  one  of  superior  subtlety  and  knowledge !  Is  there 
not  presumption  in  such  a  trust  ? 

Excellent  advice  is  this  to  the  mass  of  women ;  to  those 
to  whom  habit  or  childish  fear  or  parental  authority  has 
given  their  faith ;  who  never  doubted  or  inquired  or  rea- 
soned for  themselves.  How  easily  is  such  a  fabric  to  be 
overturned !  It  can  only  stand  by  being  never  blown 
upon.  The  least  breath  disperses  it  in  air ;  the  first  tide 
washes  it  away. 

Now,  I  entertain  no  reverence  for  such  a  bubble.  In 
some  sense,  the  religion  of  the  timorous  and  uninquisitive 
is  true.  In  another  sense  it  is  false.  Considering  the 
proofs  on  which  it  reposes,  it  is  false,  since  it  merely 
originates  in  deference  to  the  opinions  of  others,  wrought 
into  belief  by  means  of  habit.  It  is  on  a  level,  as  to  the 
proof  which  supports  it,  with  the  wildest  dreams  of  savage 
superstition,  or  the  fumes  of  a  dervise's  fanaticism. 

As  to  me,  I  was  once  just  such  a  pretty  fool  in  this 
respect  as  the  rest  of  my  sex.  I  was  easily  taught  to 
regard  religion  not  only  as  the  safeguard  of  every  virtue, 
but  even  as  the  test  of  a  good  understanding.  The  name 


JANE    TALBOT.  135 

of  infidel  was  never  mentioned  but  with  abhorrence  or 
contempt.  None  but  a  profligate,  a  sensualist,  a  ruffian, 
could  disbelieve.  Unbelief  was  a  mere  suggestion  of  the 
grand  deceiver,  to  palliate  or  reconcile  us  to  the  unlimited 
indulgence  of  our  appetites  and  the  breach  of  every 
moral  duty.  Hence  it  was  never  steadfast  or  sincere. 
An  adverse  fortune  or  a  death-bed  usually  put  an  end  to 
the  illusion. 

Thus  I  grew  up,  never  beset  by  any  doubts,  never 
venturing  on  inquiry.  My  knowledge  of  you  put  an  end 
to  this  state  of  superstitious  ignorance.  In  you  I  found, 
not  one  that  disbelieved,  but  one  that  doubted.  In  all 
your  demeanour  there  was  simplicity  and  frankness.  You 
concealed  not  your  sentiments ;  you  obtruded  them  not 
upon  my  hearing.  When  called  upon  to  state  the  history 
of  your  opinions,  it  was  candidly  detailed  ;  with  no  view 
of  gaining  my  concurrence,  but  merely  to  gratify  my 
curiosity. 

From  my  remonstrances  you  never  averted  your  ear. 
Every  proof  of  an  unprejudiced  attention,  and  even  of  a 
bias  favourable  to  my  opinions,  was  manifest.  Your  own 
experience  had  half  converted  you  already.  Your  good 
sense  was  for  a  time  the  sport  of  a  specious  theory.  You 
became  the  ardent  and  bold  champion  of  what  you  deemed 
truth.  But  a  closer  and  longer  view  insensibly  detected 
flaws  and  discords  where  all  had  formerly  been  glossy 
smoothness  and  ravishing  harmony.  Diffidence  and  cau- 
tion, worthy  of  your  youth  and  inexperience,  had  re- 
sumed their  place ;  and  those  errors  of  which  your  own 
experience  of  their  consequences  had  furnished  the  anti- 
dote, which  your  own  reflections  had  partly  divested  of 
illusion,  had  only  been  propitious  to  your  advancement 
in  true  wisdom. 

What  had  I  to  fear  from  such  an  adversary?  What 
might  I  not  hope  from  perseverance  ?  What  expect  but 
new  clearness  to  my  own  convictions,  new  and  more  ac- 
curate views  of  my  powers  and  habits  ? 

In  order  to  benefit  you,  I  was  obliged  to  scrutinize  the 
foundation  of  my  own  principles.  I  found  nothing 
but  a  void.  I  was  astonished  and  alarmed ;  and  instantly 
set  myself  to  the  business  of  inquiry.  How  could  I  hope 


136  JANE    TALBO'l. 

to  work  on  your  convictions  without  a  suitable  foundation 
for  my  own  ? 

And  see  now,  my  friend,  the  blindness  of  our  judg- 
ments. I,  who  am  imagined  to  incur  such  formidable 
perils  from  intercourse  with  you,  am,  in  truth,  indebted 
to  you  alone  for  all  my  piety, — all  of  it  that  is  perma- 
nent and  rational.  "Without  those  apprehensions  which 
your  example  inspired,  without  that  zeal  for  your  con- 
version which  my  attachment  to  you  has  produced,  what 
would  now  have  been  my  claims  to  religious  knowledge  ? 

Had  I  never  extorted  from  you  your  doubts,  and  the 
occasion  of  these  doubts ;  had  I  never  known  the  most 
powerful  objections  to  religion  from  your  lips,  I  should 
have  been  no  less  ignorant  of  the  topics  and  arguments 
favourable  to  it. 

And  I  think  I  may  venture  to  ascribe  to  myself  no  less 
a  progress  in  candour  than  in  knowledge.  My  belief  is 
stronger  than  it  ever  was,  but  I  no  longer  hold  in  scorn 
or  abhorrence  those  who  differ  from  me.  I  perceive  the 
speciousness  of  those  fallacies  by  which  they  are  deluded. 
I  find  it  possible  for  men  to  disbelieve  and  yet  retain 
their  claims  to  our  reverence,  our  affection,  and  especially 
our  good  offices. 

Those  whom  I  once  thought  were  only  to  be  hated  and 
shunned,  I  now  find  worthy  of  compassionate  efforts  for 
their  good.  Those  whom  I  once  imagined  sunk  beneath 
the  reach  of  all  succour,  and  to  merit  scarcely  the  tribute 
of  a  sigh  for  their  lost  estate,  now  appear  to  be  easily 
raised  to  tranquillity  and  virtue,  and  to  have  irresistible 
claims  to  our  help. 

In  no  respect  has  your  company  made  me  a  worse — 
in  every  respect  it  has  made  me  a  better — woman.  Not 
only  my  piety  has  become  more  rational  and  fervent, 
but  a  new  spring  has  been  imparted  to  my  languishing 
curiosity.  To  find  a  soul  to  whom  my  improvement  will 
give  delight;  eager  to  direct  and  assist  my  inquiries; 
delicately  liberal  no  less  of  censure  when  merited  than 
of  praise  where  praise  is  due ;  entering,  almost  without 
the  help  of  language  from  me,  into  my  inmost  thoughts  ; 
assisting  me,  if  I  may  so  speak,  to  comprehend  myself; 
and  raising  to  a  steadfast  and  bright  flame  the  spark 


JANE    TALBOT.  137 

that  my  wayward  fancy,  left  to  itself,  would  have  instan- 
taneously emitted  and  lost. — 

But  why  do  I  again  attempt  this  impossible  theme? 
While  reflecting  on  my  debt  to  thee,  my  heart  becomes 
too  big  for  its  mansion.  My  hand  falters,  and  the  cha- 
racters it  traces  run  into  an  illegible  scrawl. 

My  tongue  only  is  fitted  for  such  an  office ;  and  Heaven 
grant  that  you  may  speedily  return  to  me,  and  put  an 
end  to  a  solitude  Avhich  every  hour  makes  more  irksome ! 

Adieu. 


LETTER  XXXV. 

To  Mrs.  Talbot. 

Baltimore,  November  20. 

How  truly  did  my  angel  say,  that  she  whom  I  love  is 
my  deity,  and  her  lips  my  oracle,  and  that  to  her  per- 
tains not  only  the  will  to  make  me  happy,  by  giving  me 
steadfastness  and  virtue,  but  the  power  also ! 

I  have  read  your  letter  oftener  than  a  dozen  times 
already,  and  at  every  reading  my  heart  burns  more  and 
more.  That  weight  of  humiliation  and  despondency 
which,  without  your  arm  to  sustain  me,  would  assuredly 
sink  me  to  the  grave,  becomes  light  as  a  feather :  and, 
while  I  crush  your  testimonies  of  love  in  my  hand,  I 
seem  to  have  hold  of  a  stay  of  which  no  storm  can  be- 
reave me. 

One  of  my  faults,  thou  sayest,  is  a  propensity  to  reason. 
Not  satisfied  with  looking  at  that  side  of  the  post  that 
chances  to  be  near  me,  I  move  round  and  round  it,  and 
pause  and  scrutinize  till  those  whose  ill  fate  it  is  to  wait 
upon  my  motions  are  out  of  patience  with  me. 

Every  one  has  ways  of  his  own.  A  transient  glance 
at  the  post  satisfies  the  mob  of  passengers.  'Tis  my 
choice  to  stand  a  while  and  gaze. 

The  only  post,  indeed,  which  I  closely  examine,  is  my- 
self, because  my  station  is  most  convenient  for  inspecting 
that.  Yet,  though  I  have  a  fuller  view  of  myself  than 
any  other  can  have  of  me,  my  imperfect  sight — that  is, 
my  erring  judgment — is  continually  blundering. 
12* 


138  JANE    TALBOT. 

If  all  my  knowledge  relate  to  my  own  character,  and 
that  knowledge  is  egrcgiously  defective,  how  profound 
must  be  my  ignorance  of  others,  and  especially  of  her 
whom  I  presume  to  call  mine ! 

No  paradox  ever  puzzled  me  so  much  as  your  conduct. 
On  my  first  interview  with  you  I  loved  you ;  yet  what 
kind  of  passion  was  that  which  kneAV  only  your  features 
and  the  sound  of  your  voice?  Every  successive  inter- 
view has  produced,  not  only  something  new  or  unexpected, 
hut  something  in  seeming  contradiction  to  my  previous 
knowledge. 

"  She  will  act,"  said  I,  "  in  such  and  such  circumstances, 
as  those  of  her  delicate  and  indulgent  education  must 
always  act.  That  wit,  that  eloquence,  that  knowledge, 
must  only  make  her  despise  such  a  witless,  unendowed, 
unaccomplished,  wavering,  and  feehle  wretch  as  I  am." 

To  be  called  your-  friend ;  to  be  your  occasional  com- 
panion ;  to  be  a  tolerated  visitor,  was  more  than  I  ex- 
pected. When  I  found  all  this  anxiously  sought  and 
eagerly  accepted,  I  was  lost  in  astonishment.  At  times — 
may  I  venture  to  confess? — your  regard  for  me  brought 
your  judgment  into  question !  It  failed  to  inspire  me 
with  more  respect  for  myeelf ;  and  not  to  look  at  me  with 
my  own  eyes  degraded  you  in  my  opinion. 

How  have  you  laboured  to  bestow  on  me  that  inestimable 
gift, — self-confidence !  And  some  success  has  attended 
your  efforts.  My  deliverance  from  my  chains  is  less 
desperate  than  once  it  was.  I  may  judge  of  the  future, 
perhaps,  by  the  past.  Since  I  have  already  made  such 
progress  in  exchanging  distant  veneration  for  familiar 
tenderness,  and  in  persuading  myself  that  he  must  possess 
some  merit  whom  a  soul  like  thine  idolizes,  I  may  venture 
to  anticipate  the  time  when  all  my  humiliation  may  vanish, 
and  I  shall  come  to  be  thought  worthy  of  thy  love,  not 
only  by  thee,  but  by  myself. 

What  a  picture  is  this  thou  drawest!  Yet  such  is  my 
weakness,  Jane,  that  I  must  shudder  at  the  prospect.  To 
tear  thee  from  thy  present  dwelling  and  its  comforts,  to 
make  thee  a  tenant  of  thy  good  widow,  and  a  seamstress 
for  me ! 

"Yet  what"  (thou  sayest)  "is  a  fine  house,  and  a  train 


JANE    TALBOT.  139 

of  servants,  music,  and  pictures?  What  silly  prejudice, 
to  connect  dignity  and  happiness  with  high  ceilings  and 
damask  canopies  and  golden  superfluity!" 

Yet  so  silly  am  I,  when  reason  deserts  the  helm  and 
habit  assumes  it.  The  change  thou  hast  painted  deceives 
me  for  a  moment,  or  rather  is  rightly  judged  of  while  I 
look  at  nothing  but  thy  colouring ;  but  when  I  withdraw 
my  eye  from  that,  and  the  scene  rises  before  me  in  the 
hues  it  is  accustomed  to  derive  from  my  own  fancy, 
my  soul  droops,  and  I  pray  Heaven  to  avert  such  a 
destiny. 

I  tell  thee  all  my  follies,  Jane.  Art  thou  not  my  sweet 
physician?  and  how  canst  thou  cure  the  malady  when 
thou  knowest  not  all  its  symptoms  ? 

I  love  to  regard  myself  in  this  light: — as  one  owing 
his  virtue,  his  existence,  his  happiness,  his  every  thing, 
to  thee,  and  as  proposing  no  end  to  himself  but  thy 
happiness  in  turn,  but  the  discharge  of  an  endless  debt 
of  gratitude. 

On  my  account,  Jane,  I  cannot  bear  you  should  lose 
any  thing.  It  must  not  be.  Yet  what  remedy?  How 
is  thy  mother's  aversion  to  be  subdued?  how  can  she  be 
made  to  reason  on  my  actions  as  you  reason?  Yet  not 
so,  either.  None  but  she  that  loves  me  can  make  such 
constructions  and  allowances  as  you  do. 

Why  may  she  not  be  induced  to  give  up  the  hope  of 
disuniting  us,  and,  while  she  hates  me,  continue  her  affec- 
tion for  thee  ?  Why  rob  thee  of  those  bounties  hitherto 
dispensed  to  thee,  merely  because  I  must  share  in  them  ? 
My  partaking  with  thee  contributes  indispensably  to  thy 
happiness.  Not  for  my  own  sake,  then,  but  merely  for 
thine,  ought  competence  to  be  secured  to  thee. 

But  is  there  no  method  of  excluding  me  from  all  parti- 
cipation ?  She  may  withhold  from  me  all  power  of  a 
landlord,  but  she  cannot  prevent  me  from  subsisting  on 
thy  bounty. 

Yet  why  does  she  now  allow  you  to  possess  what  you 
do?  Can  she  imagine  that  my  happiness  is  not  as  dear 
to  you  now  as  it  will  be  in  consequence  of  any  change? 
If  I  share  nothing  with  you  now,  it  is  not  from  any  want 
of  benevolent  importunity  in  you. 


140  JANE    TALBOT. 

There  is  a  strange  inconsistency  and  contradiction  in 
thy  mother's  conduct. 

But  something  may  surely  be  done  to  lighten  her 
antipathies.  I  may  surely  confute  a  false  charge.  I  may 
convince  her  of  my  innocence  in  one  respect. 

Yet  see,  my  friend,  the  evils  of  which  one  error  is  the 
parent.  My  conduct  towards  the  poor  Jessy  appears  to 
your  mother  a  more  enormous  wickedness  than  this  im- 
puted injustice  to  Talbot.  The  frantic  indiscretion  of 
my  correspondence  with  Thomson  has  ruined  me ;  for  he 
that  will  commit  the  greater  crime  will  not  be  thought  to 
scruple  the  less. 

And  then  there  is  such  an  irresistible  crowd  of  evidence 
in  favour  of  the  accusation!  When  I  first  read  Mrs. 
Fielder's  letter,  the  consciousness  of  my  innocence  gave 
me  courage;  but  the  longer  I  reflect  upon  the  subject, 
the  more  deeply  I  despond.  My  own  errors  will  always 
be  powerful  pleaders  against  me  at  the  bar  of  this  austere 
judge. 

Would  to  Heaven  I  had  not  yielded  to  your  urgency ! 
The  indecorum  of  compliance  stared  me  in  the  face  at 
the  time.  Too  easily  I  yielded  to  the  enchantments  of 
those  eyes,  and  the  pleadings  of  that  melting  voice. 

The  charms  of  your  conversation;  the  midnight  hour 
whose  security  was  heightened  by  the  storm  that  raged 
without ;  so  perfectly  screened  from  every  interruption ; 
and  the  subject  we  had  been  talking  on,  so  affecting  and 
attractive  to  me,  and  so  far  from  being  exhausted,  and 
you  so  pathetically  earnest  in  entreaty,  so  absolutely  for- 
bidding my  departure. 

And  was  I  such  a  short-sighted  fool  as  not  to  insist  on 
your  retiring  at  the  usual  hour?  The  only  thing  that 
could  make  the  expedient  suggested  by  me  effectual  was 
that.  Your  Molly  lying  with  you  could  avail  you  no- 
thing, unless  you  actually  passed  the  night  in  your 
chamber. 

As  it  was,  no  contrivance  could  be  more  unfortunate, 
since  it  merely  enabled  her  the  more  distinctly  to  remark 
the  hour  when  you  came  up.  Was  it  three,  or  four, 
when  you  left  the  parlour? 

The  unbosoming  of  souls  which  that  night  witnessed, 


JANE   TALBOT.  141 

so  sweetly  as  it  dwelt  upon  my  memory,  I  now  regard 
with  horror,  since  it  has  involved  you  in  such  evil. 

But  the  letter, — that  was  a  most  disastrous  accident. 
I  had  read  very  frequently  this  fatal  billet.  Who  is  it 
that  could  imitate  your  hand  so  exactly?  The  same 
fashion  in  the  letters,  the  same  colour  in  the  ink,  the 
same  style,  and  the  sentiments  expressed  so  fully  and 
accurately  coalescing  with  the  preceding  and  genuine 
passages ! — no  wonder  that  your  mother,  being  so  well 
acquainted  with  your  pen,  should  have  no  doubt  as  to 
your  guilt,  after  such  testimony. 

There  must  be  a  perpetrator  of  this  iniquity.  Talbot 
it  could  not  be ;  for  where  lay  the  letter  in  the  interval 
between  its  disappearance  and  his  return  ?  and  what 
motive  could  influence  him  to  commit  or  to  countenance 
such  a  forgery  ? 

Without  doubt  there  was  some  deceiver.  Some  one 
stole  the  letter,  and  by  his  hand  was  this  vile  conclusion 
added,  and  by  him  was  it  communicated  to  Talbot.  But 
hast  thou  such  an  enemy  in  the  world  ?  Whom  have  you 
offended,  capable  of  harbouring  such  deadly  vengeance? 

Pray,  my  friend,  sit  down  to  the  recollection  of  your 
past  life,  and  inquire  who  it  was  that  possessed  your 
husband's  confidence ;  who  were  his  intimate  companions, 
endeavour  to  discover ;  tell  me  the  names  and  characters 
of  all  those  who  were  accustomed  to  visit  your  house, 
either  on  your  account  or  his.  Strange,  if  among  all 
these  there  is  no  foundation  for  some  conjecture,  however 
shadowy. 

Thomson  is  no  better,  yet  grows  worse  hardly  per- 
ceptibly. Adieu.  HENRY  GOLDEN. 


LETTER  XXXVI. 

To  Henry  Golden. 

Philadelphia,  November  23. 

You  impose  on  me  a  painful  task.  Persuaded  that 
reflection  was  useless,  I  have  endeavoured  to  forget  this 
fatal  letter  and  all  its  consequences.  I  see  you  will  not 


142  JANE    TALBOT. 

allow  me  to  forget  it;  Imt  I  must  own  it  is  weakness  to 
endeavour  to  shun  the  scrutiny. 

Some  one,  my  friend,  must  be  in  fault;  and  what  fault 
can  be  more  atrocious  than  this?  To  defraud,  by  forgery, 
your  neighbour  of  a  few  dollars,  is  a  crime  which  nothing 
but  a  public  and  ignominious  death  will  expiate ;  yet 
how  trivial  is  that  offence,  compared  with  a  fraud  like 
this,  which  robs  a  helpless  woman  of  her  reputation, 
— introduces  mortal  enmity  between  her  and  those  whose 
affection  is  necessary  to  render  life  tolerable  ! 

Whenever  I  think  of  this  charge,  an  exquisite  pain 
seizes  my  heart.  There  must  be  the  blackest  perfidy 
somewhere.  I  cannot  bear  to  think  that  any  human 
creature  is  capable  of  such  a  deed, — a  deed  which  the 
purest  malice  must  have  dictated,  since  there  is  none, 
surely,  in  the  world,  whom  I  have  ever  intentionally 
injured. 

I  cannot  deal  in  conjectures.  The  subject,  I  find  by 
my  feelings  since  I  began  this  letter,  is  too  agonizing, — 
too  bewildering.  It  carries  back  my  thoughts  to  a  time 
of  misery,  to  which  distance,  instead  of  soothing  it 
into  apathy,  only  adds  a  new  sting. 

A  spotless  reputci tion  was  once  dear  to  me,  but  I  have 
now  torn  the  passion  from  my  heart.  I  am  weary  of 
pursuing  a  phantom.  No  one  has  pursued  it  with  more 
eagerness  and  perseverance  than  I ;  and  what  has  been 
the  fruit  of  my  labour  but  reiterated  mortification  and 
disappointment  ? 

An  upright  demeanour,  a  self-acquitting  conscience, 
are  not  sufficient  for  our  safety.  Calumny  and  misap- 
prehension have  no  bounds  to  their  rage  and  their  activity. 

How  little  did  rny  thoughtless  heart  imagine  the  horrid 
images  which  beset  the  minds  of  my  mother  and  my 
husband  !  Happy  ignorance  !  Would  to  Heaven  it  had 
continued !  Since  knowledge  puts  it  not  in  my  power 
to  remove  the  error,  it  ought  to  be  avoided  as  the 
greatest  evil. 

While  I  know  my  own  motives,  and  am  convinced  of 
their  purity,  let  me  hold  in  contempt  the  opinions  of  the 
world  respecting  me.  They  can  never  have  a  basis  in 
truth.  Be  they  favourable  or  otherwise,  they  cannot  fail 


JANE    TALBOT.  143 

to  be  built  on  imperfect  knowledge.  The  praise  of 
others  is  therefore  as  little  to  be  sought  or  prized  as 
their  censure  to  be  dreaded  or  shunned. 

Heaven  knows  how  much  I  value  the  favour  and  affec- 
tion of  my  mother ;  but,  dear  as  it  is,  I  must  give  it  up. 
How  can  I  retain  it?  I  cannot  confute  the  charge.  I 
must  not  acknowledge  a  guilt  that  does  not  belong  to 
me.  Added,  therefore,  to  her  belief  of  my  guilt,  must 
be  the  persuasion  of  my  being  a  hardened  and  obdurate 
criminal. 

What  will  she  think  of  my  last  two  letters?  The 
former  tacitly  confessing  my  unworthiness  and  promising 
compliance  with  all  her  wishes,  the  next  asserting  my 
innocence  and  refusing  her  generous  offers.  My  first 
she  will  probably  ascribe  to  an  honourable  compunction, 
left  to  operate  without  your  control.  In  the  second  she 
will  trace  your  influence.  Left  to  myself,  she  will  ima- 
gine me  capable  of  acting  as  she  wishes ;  but,  guided  by 
you,  she  will  lose  all  hopes  of  me,  and  resign  me  to  my 
fate. 

Indeed,  I  have  given  up  my  mother.  There  is  no 
other  alternative  but  that  of  giving  up  you;  and  in  this 
case  I  can  hesitate,  indeed,  but  I  cannot  decide  against 
you. 

I  am  placed  in  a  very  painful  situation.  I  feel  as  if 
every  hour  spent  under  this  roof  was  an  encroachment 
on  another's  rights.  My  mother's  bounty  is  not  with- 
held, merely  because  my  rebellion  against  her  will  is  not 
completed;  but  I  that  feel  no  doubt,  and  whom  mere 
consideration  of  her  pleasure,  important  as  it  is,  will 
never  make  swerve  from  my  purpose,  —  ought  I  to 
enjoy  goods  to  which  I  have  forfeited  all  title  ?  Ought 
I  to  wait  for  an  express  command  to  begone  from  her 
doors  ?  Ought  I  to  lay  her  under  the  necessity  of  de- 
claring her  will  ? 

Yet  if  I  change  my  lodgings  immediately,  without 
waiting  her  directions,  will  she  not  regard  my  conduct  as 
contemptuous  ?  Shall  I  not  then  be  a  rebel  indeed  ? — 
one  that  scorns  her  favour,  and  is  eager  to  get  rid  of  all 
my  obligations  ? 

How  painful    is    such  a  situation  !    yet  there  is  no 


144  JAKE    TALBOT. 

escaping  from  it,  that  I  can  see.  I  must,  perforce,  re- 
main as  I  am.  But  perhaps  her  next  letter  -will  throw 
some  light  upon  my  destiny.  I  suppose  my  positive 
assertions  will  show  her  that  a  change  of  purpose  cannot 
be  hoped  for  from  me. 

The  bell  rings.     Perhaps  it  is  the  postman,  and  the 
intelligence  I  wish  for  has  arrived.     Adieu. 

J.  TALBOT. 


LETTER -XXXVII. 

To  the  Same. 

November  20. 

WHAT  shall  I  say  to  thee,  my  friend  ?  How  shall  I 
communicate  a  resolution  fatal,  as  thy  tenderness  will 
deem  it,  to  thy  peace,  yet  a  resolution  suggested  by  a 
heart  which  has,  at  length,  permitted  all  selfish  regards 
to  be  swallowed  up  by  a  disinterested  consideration  of 
thy  good? 

Why  did  you  conceal  from  me  your  father's  treatment 
of  you,  and  the  consequences  which  your  fidelity  to  me 
has  incurred  from  his  rage?  I  will  never  be  the  cause 
of  plunging  you  into  poverty  so  hopeless.  Did  you  think 
I  would  ?  and  could  you  imagine  it  possible  to  conceal 
from  me  forever  his  aversion  to  me  ? 

How  much  misery  would  your  forbearance  have  laid 
up  in  store  for  my  future  life  !  When  fate  had  put  it 
out  of  my  power  to  absolve  you  from  his  curses,  some 
accident  would  have  made  me  acquainted  with  the  full 
extent  of  the  sufferings  and  contumelies  with  which,  for 
my  sake,  he  had  loaded  you. 

But,  thanks  to  Heaven,  I  am  apprized  in  time  of  the 
truth.  Instead  of  the  bearer  of  a  letter  from  my  mo- 
ther, whose  signal  at  the  door  put  an  end  to  my  last 
letter,  it  was  my  mother  herself. 

Dear  and  welcome  as  those  features  and  that  voice 
once  were,  now  would  I  rather  have  encountered  the 
eyes  of  a  basilisk  and  the  notes  of  the  ill-boding  raven. 

She  hastened  with  all  this  expedition  to  thank  me;  to 
urge  me  to  execute;  to  assist  me  in  performing  the  pro- 


JANE    TALBOT.  145 

mises  of  my  first  letter.  The  second,  in  which  these 
promises  were  recalled,  never  reached  her  hand.  She 
left  New  York,  as  it  now  appeared,  before  its  arrival. 
The  interval  had  been  spent  on  the  road,  where  she  had 
been  detained  by  untoward  and  dangerous  accidents. 

Think,  my  ^friend,  of  the  embarrassments  attending 
this  unlooked-for  and  inauspicious  meeting.  Joy  at  my 
supposed  compliance  with  her  wishes,  wishes  that  imaged 
to  themselves  my  happiness,  and  only  mine,  enabled  her 
to  support  the  hardships  of  this  journey.  Fatigue  and 
exposure,  likely  to  be  fatal  to  one  of  so  delicate,  so 
infirm  a  constitution,  so  lately  and  imperfectly  reco- 
vered from  a  dangerous  malady,  could  not  deter  her. 

Fondly,  rapturously  did  she  fold  to  her  bosom  the  long- 
lost  and  late-recovered  child.  Tears  of  joy  she  shed  over 
me,  and  thanked  me  for  the  tranquil  and  serene  close 
which  my  return  to  virtue,  as  she  called  my  acquiescence, 
had  secured  to  her  life.  That  life  would  at  all  events 
be  short;  but  my  compliances,  if  they  could  not  much 
protract  it,  would  at  least  render  its  approaching  end 
peaceful. 

All  attempts  to  reason  with  my  mother  were  fruitless. 
She  fell  into  alarming  agonies  when  she  discovered  the  full 
import  of  that  coldness  and  dejection  which  my  demeanour 
betrayed.  Fatigued  and  indisposed  as  she  was,  she  made 
preparation  to  depart ;  she  refused  to  pass  one  night  under 
the  same  roof, — her  own  roof, — and  determined  to  be- 
gone, on  her  return  home,  the  very  next  morning. 

Will  not  your  heart  comprehend  the  greatness  of  this 
trial,  and  pity  and  excuse  a  momentary  wavering,  a  yield- 
ing irresolution  ?  Yet  it  was  but  momentary.  An  hour's 
solitude  and  deep  reflection  fortified  my  heart  against  the 
grief  and  supplication  even  of  my  mother. 

Next  day  she  was  more  calm.  She  condescended  to 
reason,  to  expostulate.  She  carefully  shunned  the  men- 
tion of  atrocious  charges.  She  dwelt  only  on  the  proofs 
which  your  past  life  and  your  own  confessions  had  afforded 
of  unsteady  courage  and  unwarrantable  principles ;  your 
treatment  of  the  Woodbury  girl;  your  correspondence 
with  Thomson ;  your  ignoble  sloth ;  your  dependence  upon 
others;  your  helplessness. 

13 


146  JANE   TALBOT. 

From  these  accusations  I  defended  you  in  silence.  My 
heart  was  your  secret  advocate.  I  did  not  verbally  repel 
any  of  these  charges.  That  of  inglorious  dependence  for 
subsistence  upon  others  I  admitted;  but  I  could  not  for- 
bear urging  that  this  dependence  was  on  a  father.  A 
father  who  was  rich ;  who  had  no  other  child  than  your- 
self ;  whose  own  treatment  of  you  had  planted  and  reared 
in  you  this  indisposition  to  labour;  to  whose  property 
your  title,  ultimately,  could  not  be  denied. 

"And  has  he  then,"  she  exclaimed,  "deceived  you  in 
that  particular  ?  Has  he  concealed  from  you  his  father's 
resolutions  ?  That  his  engagement  with  you  has  already 
draAvn  down  his  father's  anger,  and  even  his  curses  ?  On 
his  persisting  to  maintain  an  inviolable  faith  to  you,  he 
was  ignominiously  banished  from  his  father's  roof.  All 
kindred  and  succour  were  disclaimed,  and  on  you  depends 
the  continuance  of  that  decree,  and  whether  that  pro- 
tection and  subsistence  which  he  has  hitherto  enjoyed, 
and  of  which  his  character  stands  in  so  much  need,  shall 
be  lost  to  him  forever." 

You  did  not  tell  me  this,  my  friend.  In  claiming  your 
love,  far  was  I  from  imagining  that  I  tore  you  from  your 
father's  house,  and  plunged  you  into  that  indigence 
which  your  character  and  education  so  totally  unfit  you 
for  sustaining  or  escaping  from. 

My  mother  removed  all  doubt  which  could  not  but  at- 
tend such  unwelcome  tidings,  by  showing  me  her  own 
letter  to  your  father,  and  his  answer  to  it. 

Well  do  I  recollect  your  behaviour  on  the  evening  when 
my  mother's  letter  was  received  by  your  father.  At  that 
time,  your  deep  dejection  was  inexplicable.  And  did  you 
not — my  heart  bleeds  to  think  how  much  my  love  has 
cost  you — did  you  not  talk  of  a  fall  on  the  ice  when  I 
pointed  to  a  bruise  on  your  forehead  ?  That  bruise,  and 
every  token  of  dismay,  your  endeavours  at  eluding  or 
diverting  my  attention  from  your  sorrow  and  solemnity, 
are  now  explained. 

Good  Heaven !  And  was  I  indeed  the  cause  of  that  vio- 
lence, that  contumely, — the  rage,  and  even  curses,  of  a 
father  ?  And  why  concealed  you  these  maledictions  and 
this  violence  from  me?  Was  it  not  because  you  well 


JANE   TALBOT.  147 

knew  that  I  would  never  consent  to  subject  you  to  such 
a  penalty? 

Hasten  then,  I  beseech  you,  to  your  father ;  lay  this 
letter  before  him ;  let  it  inform  him  of  my  solemn  and 
irrevocable  resolution  to  sever  myself  from  you  for- 
ever. 

But  this  I  will  myself  do.  I  will  acquaint  him  with 
my  resignation  to  his  will  and  that  of  my  mother,  and 
beseech  him  to  restore  you  to  his  favour. 

Farewell,  my  friend.  By  that  name,  at  least,  I  may 
continue  to  call  you.  Yet  no.  I  must  never  see  you 
nor  hear  from  you  again,  unless  it  be  in  answer  to  this 
letter. 

Let  your  pity  stifle  the  emotions  of  indignation  or  grief, 
and  return  me  such  an  answer  as  may  tend  to  reconcile 
me  to  the  vow  which,  whether  difficult  or  easy,  must  not 
be  broken.  J.  T. 


LETTER  XXXVIII. 

To  Henry  Golden,  Senior. 

November  20. 

Sm:— 

I  was  not  informed  till  to-day  of  the  correspondence 
that  has  passed  between  you  and  my  mother,  nor  of  your 
aversion  to  the  alliance  which  was  designed  to  take  place 
between  your  son  and  me. 

It  is  my  duty  to  inform  you  that,  in  my  opinion,  your 
approbation  was  absolutely  necessary  to  such  a  union ; 
and  consequently,  since  your  concurrence  is  withheld,  it 
will  never  take  place.  Every  tie  or  engagement  between 
us  is  from  this  moment  dissolved,  and  all  intercourse,  by 
letter  or  otherwise,  will  here  end. 

Your  son,  in  opposing  your  wishes,  imagined  himself 
consulting  my  happiness.  In  that  he  was  mistaken ;  and 
I  have  now  removed  his  error,  by  acquainting  him  with 
my  present  determination. 

I  am  deeply  grieved  that  his  attachment  to  me  has  for- 
feited your  favour.  I  hope  that  there  is  no  other  obstacle 


148  JANE    TALBOT. 

to  reconcilement,  and  that  the  termination  of  all  inter- 
course between  us  may  remove  that  obstacle. 

JANE  TALBOT. 

I  join  my  daughter  in  assuring  you  that  the  alliance, 
for  which  a  mutual  aversion  was  entertained,  cannot  take 
place ;  and  that  all  her  engagements  with  your  son  are 
dissolved.  I  join  her  likewise  in  entreating  you  to  forget 
his  disobedience  and  restore  him-  to  your  protection  and 
favour.  M.  FIELDER. 


LETTER  XXXIX. 
To  Mrs.  Talbot. 

November  28. 

IT  becomes  me  to  submit  without  a  murmur  to  a  reso- 
lution dictated  by  a  disinterested  regard  to  my  happiness. 

That  you  may  find  in  that  persuasion,  in  your  mother's 
tenderness  and  gratitude,  in  the  affluence  and  honour 
which  this  determination  has  secured  to  you,  abundant 
consolation  for  every  evil  that  may  befall  yourself  or 
pursue  me,  are  my  only  wishes. 

Far  was  I  from  designing  to  conceal  from  you  entirely 
my  father's  aversion  to  our  views.  I  frequently  apprized 
you  of  the  inferences  to  be  naturally  drawn  from  his 
known  character;  but  I  trusted  to  his  generosity,  to  the 
steadiness  of  my  own  deportment,  to  your  own  merits, 
when  he  should  become  personally  acquainted  with  you, 
to  his  good  sense,  when  reflecting  on  an  evil  in  his  power 
to  lessen  though  not  wholly  to  remove,  for  a  change  in 
his  opinions,  or,  at  least,  in  his  conduct. 

There  was  sufficient  resemblance  in  the  characters  of 
both  our  parents  to  make  me  rely  on  the  influence  of  time 
and  reflection  in  our  favour.  Your  mother  could  not 
cease  to  love  you.  I  could  not  by  any  accident  be  wholly 
bereaved  of  my  father's  affection.  No  conduct  of  theirs 
had  robbed  them  of  my  esteem.  "Why  then  did  I  persist 
in  thwarting  their  wishes?  Why  encourage  you  in  your 
opposition  ?  Because  I  imagined  that,  in  thwarting  their 
present  views,  which  were  founded  in  error,  I  consulted 


JANE  TALBOT.  149 

their  lasting  happiness,  and  made  myself  a  title  to  their 
future  gratitude  by  challenging  their  present  rebukes. 

I  told  you  not  of  my  father's  passionate  violences,  dis- 
graceful to  himself  and  productive  of  unspeakable  anguish 
to  me.  Why  should  I  revive  the  scene  ?  why  be  the  his- 
torian of  my  father's  dishonour  ?  why  needlessly  add  to 
my  own  and  to  your  affliction  ? 

My  concealments  arose  not  from  the  fear  that  the  dis- 
closure would  estrange  you  from  me.  I  supposed  you 
willing  to  grant  me  the  same  independence  of  a  parent's 
control  which  you  claimed  for  yourself.  I  saw  no  differ- 
ence between  forbearing  to  consult  a  parent,  in  a  case 
where  we  know  that  his  answer  will  condemn  us,  and 
slighting  his  express  forbidding. 

I  say  thus  much  to  account  for,  and,  if  possible,  excuse, 
that  concealment  with  which  you  reproach  me.  Tender 
and  reluctant,  indeed,  are  these  reproaches ;  but,  as  I 
deem  it  a  sacred  duty  to  reveal  to  you  the  utmost  of  my 
follies,  what  but  injustice  to  you  would  be  the  tacit  ad- 
mission of  injurious  but  groundless  charges? 

My  actual  faults  are  of  too  deep  a  dye  to  allow  me  to 
sport  with  your  good  opinion,  or  permit  me  to  be  worse 
thought  of  by  you  than  I  deserve. 

You  exhort  me  to  seek  reconcilement  with  my  father. 
What  mean  you?  I  have  not  been  the  injurer.  Not  an 
angry  word,  accusing  look,  or  revengeful  thought,  has 
come  from  me.  I  have  exercised  the  privilege  of  a  ra- 
tional and  moral  being.  I  have  loved,  not  according  to 
another's  estimate  of  merit,  but  my  own.  Of  what  then 
am  I  to  repent  ?  Where  lies  my  transgression  ?  If  his 
treatment  of  me  be  occasioned  by  antipathy  for  you, 
must  I  adopt  his  antipathy  and  thus  creep  again  into 
favour  ?  Impossible !  If  it  arise  from  my  refusing  to 
give  up  an  alliance  which  his  heart  abhors,  your  letter 
to  him,  which  you  tell  me  you  mean  to  write,  and  which 
will  inform  him  that  every  view  of  that  kind  is  at  an  end, 
will  remove  the  evil. 

Fear  not  for  me,  my  friend.  Whatever  be  my  lot,  be 
assured  that  I  never  can  taste  pure  misery  while  the 
thought  abides  with  me  that  you  are  not  happy. 

And  what  now  remains  but  to  leave  with  you  the  bless- 
13* 


150  JANE   TALBOT. 

ing  of  a  grateful  and  devoted  heart,  and  to  submit,  with 
what  humility  I  can,  to  the  destiny  which  you  have  pre- 
scribed? 

I  should  not  deserve  your  love,  if  I  did  not  now  relin- 
quish it  with  an  anguish  next  to  despair;  neither  should 
I  have  merit  in  my  own  eyes,  if  I  did  not  end  this  letter 
with  acquitting  you,  the  author  of  my  loss,  of  all  shadow 
of  blame. 

Farewell forever.  II.  GOLDEN. 


LETTER  XL. 

To  James  Montford. 

November  28. 

I  TOLD  you  of  your  brother  Stephen's  talk  with  me 
about  accompanying  him  on  his  northwest  voyage.  I 
mentioned  to  you  what  were  my  objections  to  the  scheme. 
It  was  a  desperate  adventure ;  a  sort  of  forlorn  hope ;  to 
be  pursued  in  case  my  wishes  in  relation  to  Jane  should 
be  crossed.  I  had  not  then  any,  or  much,  apprehension 
of  change  in  her  resolutions.  So  many  proofs  of  a  fer- 
vent and  invincible  attachment  to  me  had  she  lately 
given,  that  I  could  not  imagine  any  motive  strong  enough 
to  change  her  purpose.  Yet  now,  my  friend,  have  I  ar- 
ranged matters  with  your  brother,  and  expect  to  bid  an 
everlasting  farewell  to  my  native  shore  some  day  within 
the  ensuing  fortnight. 

I  call  it  an  everlasting  farewell,  for  I  have,  at  present, 
neither  expectation  nor  desire  of  returning.  A  three  years' 
wandering  among  boisterous  seas  and  through  various  cli- 
mates, added  to  that  inward  care,  that  spiritless,  dejected 
heart,  which  I  shall  ever  bear  about  me,  would  surely  never 
let  me  return,  even  if  I  had  the  wish :  but  I  have  not  the 
wish.  If  I  live  at  all,  it  must  be  in  a  scene  far  different 
and  distant  from  that  in  which  I  have  been  hitherto  re- 
luctantly detained. 

And  why  have  I  embraced  this  scheme  ?  There  can 
be  but  one  cause. 

Having  just  returned  from  following  Thomson's  remains 


JANE   TALBOT.  151 

to  the  grave,  I  received  a  letter  from  Jane.  Her  mother 
had  just  arrived.  She  came,  it  seems,  in  consequence 
of  her  daughter's  apparent  compliance  with  her  wishes. 
The  letter  retracting  my  friend's  precipitate  promise  had 
miscarried  or  had  lingered  by  the  way.  What  I  little 
suspected,  my  father  had  acquainted  Mrs.  Fielder  with 
his  conduct  towards  me;  and  this,  together  with  her 
mother's  importunities,  had  prevailed  on  Jane  once  more 
to  renounce  me. 

There  never  occurred  an  event  in  my  life  which  did  not, 
someway,  bear  testimony  to  the  usefulness  and  value  of 
sincerity.  Had  I  fully  disclosed  all  that  passed  between 
my  father  and  me,  should  I  not  easily  have  diverted  Jane 
from  these  extremities?  Alone,  at  a  distance  from  me, 
and  with  her  mother's  eloquence  at  hand  to  confirm  every 
wayward  sentiment  and  fortify  her  in  every  hostile  reso- 
lution, she  is  easily  driven  into  paths,  and  perhaps  kept 
steadily  in  them,  from  which  proper  explanations  and 
pathetic  arguments,  had  they  been  early  and  seasonably 
employed  by  me,  would  have  led  her  easily  away. 

I  begin  to  think  it  is  vain  to  strive  against  maternal 
influence.  What  but  momentary  victory  can  I  hope  to 
attain?  What  but  poverty,  dependence,  ignominy,  will 
she  share  with  me?  And  if  her  strenuous  spirit  set 
naught  by  these,  (and  I  know  she  is  capable  of  rising 
above  them,)  how  will  she  support  her  mother's  indigna- 
tion and  grief? 

I  have  now,  indeed,  no  hope  of  even  momentary  vic- 
tory. There  are  but  two  persons  in  the  world  who  com- 
mand her  affections.  Either,  when  present,  (the  other 
absent  or  silent,)  has  absolute  dominion  over  her.  Her 
mother,  no  doubt,  is  apprized  of  this,  and  has  now  pur- 
sued the  only  effectual  method  of  securing  submission. 

I  have  already  written  an  answer ;  I  hope  such  a  one 
as,  when  the  present  tumults  of  passion  have  subsided, 
when  the  eye  sedately  scrutinizes,  and  the  heart  beats  in 
an  even  tenor,  may  be  read  without  shame  or  remorse. 

I  shall  also  write  to  her  mother.  In  doing  this  I  must 
keep  down  the  swelling  bitterness.  It  may  occupy  my 
solitude,  torment  my  feelings ;  but  why  should  it  infect 
my  pen? 


152  JANE   TALBOT. 

I  have  sometimes  given  myself  credit  for  impartiality 
in  judging  of  others.  Indeed,  I  am  inclined  to  think  my- 
self no  blind  or  perverse  judge  even  of  my  own  actions. 
Hence,  indeed,  the  greater  part  of  my  unhappiness.  If 
my  conduct  had  always  conformed,  instead  of  being  ad- 
verse, to  my  principles,  I  should  have  moved  on  tranquilly 
and  self-satisfied,  at  least;  but,  in  truth,  the  being  that 
goes  by  my  name  was  never  more  thoroughly  contemned 
by  another  than  by  myself. — But  this  is  falling  into  the 
old  strain, — irksome,  tiresome,  and  useless  to  you  as  to 
me.  Yet  I  cannot  write  just  now  in  any  other ;  therefore 
I  will  stop. 

Adieu,  my  friend.  There  will  be  time  enough  to  hear 
from  you  ere  my  departure.  Let  me  hear,  then,  from 
you. 


LETTER    XLI. 

To  Henry  Golden. 

Philadelphia,  December  3. 

SIR:— 

My  daughter  informs  me  that  the  letter  she  has  just 
despatched  to  you  contains  her  resolution  of  never  seeing 
you  more.  I  likewise  discover  that  she  has  requested 
and  expects  a  reply  from  you,  in  which,  she  doubts  not, 
you  will  confirm  her  resolution. 

You,  no  doubt,  regard  me  as  your  worst  enemy.  No 
request  from  me  can  hope  to  be  complied  with ;  yet  I  can- 
not forbear  suggesting  the  propriety  of  your  refraining 
from  making  any  answer  to  my  daughter's  letter. 

In  my  treatment  of  you,  I  shall  not  pretend  any  direct 
concern  for  your  happiness.  I  am  governed,  whether 
erroneously  or  not,  merely  by  views  to  the  true  interest, 
of  Mrs.  Talbot,  which,  in  my  opinion,  forbids  her  to  unite 
herself  to  you.  But  if  that  union  be  calculated  to  be- 
reave her  of  happiness,  it  cannot  certainly  be  conducive 
to  yours.  If  you  consider  the  matter  rightly,  therefore, 
instead  of  accounting  me  an  enemy,  you  will  rank  me 
among  your  benefactors. 


JANE   TALBOT.  153 

You  have  shown  yourself,  in  some  instances,  not  desti- 
tute of  generosity.  It  is  but  justice  to  acknowledge  that 
your  late  letter  to  me  avows  sentiments  such  as  I  by  no 
means  expected,  and  makes  me  disposed  to  trust  your 
candour  to  acquit  my  intention,  at  least,  of  some  of  the 
consequences  of  your  father's  resentment. 

I  was  far  from  designing  to  subject  you  to  violence  or 
ignominy,  and  meant  nothing  by  my  application  to  him 
but  your  genuine  and  lasting  happiness. 

I  dare  not  hope  that  it  will  ever  be  in  my  power  to  ap- 
pease that  resentment  which  you  feel  for  me.  I  cannot 
expect  that  you  are  so  far  raised  above  the  rest  of  men, 
that  any  action  will  be  recommended  to  you  by  its  ten- 
dency to  oblige  me ;  yet  I  cannot  conceal  from  you  that 
your  reconcilement  with  your  father  will  give  me  peculiar 
satisfaction. 

I  ventured  on  a  former  occasion  to  make  you  an  offer, 
on  condition  of  your  going  to  Europe,  which  I  now  beg 
leave  to  repeat.  By  accepting  the  enclosed  bill,  and  em- 
barking for  a  foreign  land  without  any  further  intercourse, 
personally  or  by  letter,  with  my  daughter,  and  after  recon- 
ciliation with  your  father,  you  will  confer  a  very  great 
favour  on  one  who,  notwithstanding  appearances,  has  acted 
in  a  manner  that  becomes 

Your  true  friend,  M.  FIELDER. 


LETTER  XLII. 

To  Mrs.  Fielder. 

Baltimore,  December  5. 

MADAM  : — 

I  pretend  not  to  be  raised  above  any  of  the  infirmities 
of  human  nature ;  but  I  am  too  sensible  of  the  errors  of 
my  past  conduct,  and  the  defects  which  will  ever  cleave  to 
my  character,  to  be  either  surprised  or  indignant  at  the 
disapprobation  of  a  virtuous  mind.  So  far  from  harbour- 
ing resentment  against  you,  it  is  with  reluctance  I  decline 
the  acceptance  of  your  bill.  I  cannot  consider  it  in  any 
other  light  than  as  an  alms  which  my  situation  is  far 


154  JANE   TALBOT. 

from  making  necessary,  and  by  receiving  which  I  should 
defraud  those  whose  poverty  may  plead  a  superior 
title. 

I  hasten  to  give  you  pleasure  by  informing  you  of  my 
intention  to  leave  America  immediately.  My  destiny  is 
far  from  being  certain ;  but  at  present  I  both  desire  and 
expect  never  to  revisit  my  native  land. 

I  design  not  to  solicit  another  interview  with  Mrs. 
Talbot.  You  dissuade  me  from  making  any  reply  to  her 
-  letter,  from  the  fear,  no  doubt,  that  my  influence  will  be 
exerted  to  change  her  resolution.  Dismiss,  I  entreat  you, 
madam,  every  apprehension  of  that  kind.  Your  daughter 
has  deliberately  made  her  election.  If  no  advantage  be 
taken  of  her  tenderness  and  pity,  she  will  be  happy  in 
her  new  scheme.  Shall  I,  who  pretend  to  love  her,  sub- 
ject her  to  new  trials  and  mortifications  ?  Am  I  able  to 
reward  her,  by  my  affection,  for  the  loss  of  every  other 
comfort  ?  What  can  I  say  in  favour  of  my  own  attach- 
ment to  her,  Avhich  may  not  be  urged  in  favour  of  her 
attachment  to  her  mother  ?  The  happiness  of  the  one  or 
the  other  must  be  sacrificed ;  and  shall  I  not  rather  offer 
than  demand  the  sacrifice?  and  how  poor  and  selfish 
should  I  be  if  I  did  not  strive  to  lessen  the  difficulties  of 
her  choice,  and  persuade  her  that  in  gratifying  her  mother 
she  inflicts  no  lasting  misery  on  me  7 

I  regard  in  its  true  light  what  you  can  say  with  re- 
spect to  a  reconcilement  with  my  father,  and  am  always 
ready  to  comply  with  your  wishes  in  the  only  way  that  a 
conviction  of  my  own  rectitude  will  permit.  I  have  pa- 
tiently endured  revilings  and  blows,  but  I  shall  not  need- 
lessly expose  myself  to  new  insults.  Though  willing  to 
accept  apology  and  grant  an  oblivion  of  the  past,  I  will 
never  avow  a  penitence  which  I  do  not  feel,  or  confess 
that  I  deserved  the  treatment  I  received. 

Truly  can  I  affirm  that  your  daughter's  happiness  is  of 
all  earthly  things  most  dear  to  me.  I  fervently  thank 
Heaven  that  I  leave  her  exempt  from  all  the  hardships 
of  poverty,  and  in  the  bosom  of  one  who  will  guard  her 
safety  with  a  zeal  equal  to  my  own.  All  that  I  fear  is, 
that  your  efforts  to  console  her  will  fail.  I  know  the 
heart  which,  if  you  thought  me  worthy  of  the  honour,  I 


JANE    TALBOT.  155 

should  account  it  my  supreme  felicity  to  call  mine.     Let 
it  be  a  precious  deposit  in  your  hands. 

And  now,  madam,  permit  me  to  conclude"with  a  solemn 
blessing  on  your  head  and  on  hers,  and  with  an  eternal 
farewell  to  you  both.  H.  GOLDEN. 


LETTER  XLIII. 

To  James  Montford. 

Philadelphia,  December  7. 

I  HOPE  you  will  approve  of  my  design  to  accompany 
Stephen.  The  influence  of  variety  and  novelty  will  no 
doubt  be  useful.  Why  should  I  allow  my  present  feelings, 
which  assure  me  that  I  have  lost  what  is  indispensable  not 
only  to  my  peace  but  my  life,  to  supplant  the  invariable 
lesson  of  experience,  which  teaches  that  time  and  absence 
will  dull  the  edge  of  every  calamity?  And  have  I  not 
found  myself  peculiarly  susceptible  of  this  healing  influ- 
ence? 

Time  and  change  of  scene  will,  no  doubt,  relieve  me ; 
but,  in  the  mean  time,  I  have  not  a  name  for  that  wretch- 
edness into  which  I  am  sunk.  The  light  of  day,  the  com- 
pany of  mankind,  is  at  this  moment  insupportable.  Of 
all  places  in  the  world,  this  is  the  most  hateful  to  my 
soul.  I  should  not  have  entered  the  city,  I  should  not 
abide  in  it  a  moment,  were  it  not  for  a  thought  that  oc- 
curred just  before  I  left  Baltimore. 

You  know  the  mysterious  and  inexplicable  calumny 
which  has  heightened  Mrs.  Fielder's  antipathy  against  me. 

Of  late,  I  have  been  continually  ruminating  on  it,  and 
especially  since  Mrs.  Talbot's  last  letter.  Methinks  it 
is  impossible  for  me  to  leave  the  country  till  I  have 
cleared  her  character  of  this  horrid  aspersion.  Can  there 
be  any  harmony  between  mother  and  child,  must  not  sus- 
picion and  mistrust  perpetually  rankle  in  their  bosoms, 
while  this  imposture  is  believed? 

Yet  how  to  detect  the  fraud — Some  clue  must  be  dis- 
cernible; perseverance  must  light  on  it  at  last.  The 
agent  in  this  sordid  iniquity  must  be  human ;  must  be 


156  JANE   TALBOT. 

influenced  by  the  ordinary  motives ;  must  be  capable  of 
remorse  or  of  error ;  must  have  moments  of  repentance 
or  of  negligerTce. 

My  mind  was  particularly  full  of  this  subject  in  a  mid- 
night ramble  which  I  took  just  before  I  left  Baltimore. 
Something — I  know  not  what — recalled  to  my  mind  a 
conversation  which  I  had  with  the  poor  washwoman  at 
Wilmington.  Miss  Jessup,  whom  you  well  know  by  my 
report,  passed  through  Wilmington  just  as  I  left  the  sick 
woman's  house,  and  stopped  a  moment  just  to  give  me  a 
"How  d'ye"  and  to  drop  some  railleries  founded  on  my 
visits  to  Miss  Seeker,  a  single  and  solitary  lady.  On 
reaching  Philadelphia,  she  amused  herself  with  perplex- 
ing Jane  by  jesting  exaggerations  on  the  same  subject, 
in  a  way  that  seemed  to  argue  somewhat  of  malignity; 
yet  I  thought  nothing  of  it  at  the  time. 

On  my  next  visit  to  the  sick  woman,  it  occurred  to  me, 
for  want  of  other  topics  of  conversation,  to  introduce  Miss 
Jessup.  Did  she  know  any  thing,  I  asked,  of  that  lady  ? 

Oh,  yes,  was  the  answer.  A  great  deal.  She  lived  a 
long  time  in  the  family.  She  remembered  her  well,  and 
was  a  sufferer  by  many  of  her  freaks. 

It  was  always  disagreeable  to  me  to  listen  to  the  slander- 
ous prate  of  servants ;  I  am  careful,  whenever  it  intrudes 
itself,  to  discourage  and  rebuke  it ;  but  just  at  this  time  I 
felt  some  resentment  against  this  lady,  and  hardly  sup- 
posed it  possible  for  any  slanderer  to  exaggerate  her  con- 
temptible qualities.  I  suffered  her  therefore  to  run  on 
in  a  tedious  and  minute  detail  of  the  capricious,  peevish, 
and  captious  deportment  of  Miss  Jessup. 

After  the  rhetoric  of  half  an  hour,  all  was  wound  up, 
in  a  kind  of  satirical  apology,  with,  "No  wonder;  for  the 
girl  was  over  head  and  ears  in  love,  and  her  man  would 
have  nothing  to  say  to  her.  A  hundred  times  has  she 
begged  and  prayed  him  to  be  kind,  but  he  slighted  all  her 
advances ;  and  always,  after  they  had  been  shut  up  to- 
gether, she  wreaked  her  disappointment  and  ill-humour 
upon  us." 

"Pray,"  said  I,  "who was  this  ungrateful  person?" 

"His  name  was  Talbot.  Miss  Jessup  would  not  give 
him  up,  but  teased  him  with  letters  and  prayers  till  the 


JANE   TALBOT.  157 

man  at  last  got  married, — ten  to  one,  for  no  other  reason 
than  to  get  rid  of  her." 

This  intelligence  was  new.  Much  as  I  had  heard  of 
Miss  Jessup,  a  story  like  this  had  never  reached  my 
ears.  I  quickly  ascertained  that  the  Talbot  spoken  of 
was  the  late  husband  of  my  friend. 

Some  incident  interrupted  the  conversation  here.  The 
image  of  Miss  Jessup  was  displaced  to  give  room  to  more 
important  reveries,  and  I  thought  no  more  of  her  till  this 
night's  ramble.  I  now  likewise  recollected  that  the  only 
person  suspected  of  having  entered  the  apartment  where 
lay  Mrs.  Talbot' s  unfinished  letter  was  no  other  than  Miss 
Jessup  herself,  who  was  always  gadding  at  unseasonable 
hours.  How  was  this  suspicion  removed  ?  By  Miss  Jessup 
herself,  who,  on  being  charged  with  the  theft,  asserted  that 
she  was  elsewhere  engaged  at  the  time. 

It  was,  indeed,  exceedingly  improbable  that  Miss  Jessup 
had  any  agency  in  this  affair, — a  volatile,  giddy,  thought- 
less character,  who  betrayed  her  purposes  on  all  occasions, 
from  a  natural  incapacity  to  keep  a  secret.  And  yet 
had  not  this  person  succeeded  in  keeping  her  attachment 
to  Mr.  Talbot  from  the  knowledge,  and  even  the  suspicion, 
of  his  wife  ?  Their  intercourse  had  been  very  frequent 
since  her  marriage,  and  all  her  sentiments  appeared  to 
be  expressed  with  a  rash  and  fearless  confidence.  Yet,  if 
Hannah  Seeker's  story  deserved  credit,  she  had  exerted 
a  wonderful  degree  of  circumspection,  and  had  placed  on 
her  lips  a  guard  that  had  never  once  slept. 

I  determined  to  stop  at  Wilmington  next  day,  on  my 
journey  to  you,  and  glean  what  further  information 
Hannah  could  give.  I  ran  to  her  lodgings  as  soon  as  I 
alighted  at  the  inn. 

I  inquired  how  long  and  in  what  years  she  lived  with 
Miss  Jessup ;  what  reason  she  had  for  suspecting  her  mis- 
tress of  an  attachment  to  Talbot ;  what  proofs  Talbot  gave 
of  aversion  to  her  wishes. 

On  each  of  these  heads  her  story  was  tediously  minute 
and  circumstantial.  She  lived  with  Miss  Jessup  and  her 
mother  before  Talbot's  marriage  with  my  friend,  after 
the  marriage,  and  during  his  absence  on  the  voyage  which 
occasioned  his  death. 

14 


158  JANE   TALBOT. 

The  proofs  of  Miss  Jessup's  passion  were  continually 
occurring  in  her  own  family,  where  she  suffered  the  ill- 
humour  occasioned  by  her  disappointment  to  display 
itself  without  control.  Hannah's  curiosity  was  not  chas- 
tened by  much  reflection,  and  some  things  were  overheard 
which  verified  the  old  maxim  that  "walls  have  ears." 
In  short,. it  appears  that  this  poor  lady  doted  on  Talbot; 
that  she  reversed  the  usual  methods  of  proceeding,  and 
submitted  to  his  mercy ;  that  she  met  with  nothing  but 
scorn  and  neglect ;  that  even  after  his  marriage  with  Jane 
she  sought  his  society,  pestered  him  with  invitations  and 
letters,  and  directed  her  walks  in  such  a  way  as  to  make 
their  meeting  in  the  street  occur  as  if  by  accident. 

While  Talbot  was  absent,  she  visited  his  wife  very  fre- 
quently, but  the  subjects  of  their  conversation  and  the 
degree  of  intimacy  between  the  two  ladies  were  better 
known  to  me  than  to  Hannah. 

You  may  think  it  strange  that  my  friend  never  sus- 
pected or  discovered  the  state  of  Miss  Jessup's  feelings. 
But,  in  truth,  Jane  is  the  least  suspicious  or  inquisitive 
of  mortals.  Her  neighbour  was  regarded  with  no  parti- 
cular affection ;  her  conversation  is  usually  a  vein  of  im- 
pertinence or  levity ;  her  visits  were  always  unsought,  and 
eluded  as  often  as  decorum  would  permit ;  her  talk  was 
seldom  listened  to,  and  she  and  all  belonging  to  her  were 
dismissed  from  recollection  as  soon  as  politeness  gave  leave. 
Miss  Jessup's  deficiencies  in  personal  and  mental  graces, 
and  Talbot's  undisguised  contempt  for  her,  precluded 
every  sentiment  like  jealousy. 

Jane's  life  since  the  commencement  of  her  acquaintance 
with  Miss  Jessup  was  lonely  and  secluded.  Her  friends 
were  not  of  her  neighbour's  cast,  and  those  tattlers  who 
knew  any  thing  of  Miss  Jessup's  follies  were  quite  un- 
known to  her.  No  wonder,  then,  that  the  troublesome 
impertinence  of  this  poor  woman  had  never  betrayed  her 
to  so  inattentive  an  observer  as  Jane. 

After  many  vague  and  fruitless  inquiries,  I  asked 
Hannah  if  Miss  Jessup  was  much  addicted  to  the  pen. 

Very  much.  Was  always  scribbling.  Was  never  by 
herself  three  minutes  but  the  pen  was  taken  up ;  would 
write  on  any  pieces  of  paper  that  offered ;  was  frequently 


JANE   TALBOT.  159 

rebuked  by  her  mother  for  wasting  so  much  time  in  this 
way ;  the  cause  of  a  great  many  quarrels  between  them ; 
the  old  lady  spent  the  whole  day  knitting ;  supplied  her- 
self in  this  way  with  all  the  stockings  she  herself  used ; 
knit  nothing  but  worsted,  which  she  wore  all  the  year 
round ;  all  the  surplus  beyond  what  she  needed  for  her 
own  use  she  sold  at  a  good  price  to  a  Market  Street 
shopkeeper ;  Hannah  used  to  be  charged  with  the  com- 
mission ;  always  executed  it  grumblingly ;  the  old  lady 

had  stipulated  with  a  Mr.  H to  take,  at  a  certain 

price,  all  she  made;  Hannah  was  despatched  with  the 
stockings,  but  was  charged  to  go  beforehand  to  twenty 
other  dealers  and  try  to  get  more ;  used  to  go  directly  to 
Mr.  II ,  and  call  on  her  friends  by  the  way,  persuad- 
ing the  old  lady  that  her  detention  was  occasioned  by  the 
number  and  perseverance  of  her  application's  to  the  dealers 
in  hose,  till  at  last  she  fell  under  suspicion,  was  once  fol- 
lowed by  the  old  lady,  detected  in  her  fraud,  and  dismissed 
from  the  house  with  ignominy.  The  quondam  mistress 
endeavoured  to  injure  Hannah's  character  by  reporting 
that  her  agent  had  actually  got  a  higher  price  for  the 
stockings  than  she  thought  proper  to  account  for  to  her 
employer ;  had  gained,  by  this  artifice,  not  less  than  three 
farthings  a  pair  on  twenty-three  pairs ;  all  a  base  lie  as 
ever  was  told 

"You say  that  Miss  Jessup  was  a  great  scribbler.  Did 
she  write  well;  fast;  neatly?" 

"  They  say  she  did, — very  well."  For  her  part,  she 
could  not  write,  and  was  therefore  no  judge  ;  but  Tom, 
the  waiter  and  coachman,  was  very  fond  of  reading  and 
writing,  and  used  to  say  that  Miss  Polly  would  make  a 
good  clerk.  Tom  used  to  carry  all  her  messages  and 
letters;  was  a  cunning  and  insinuating  fellow;  cajoled 
his  mistress  by  flatteries  and  assiduities ;  got  many  a 
smile,  many  a  bounty  and  gratuity,  for  which  the  fellow 
only  laughed  at  her  behind  her  back. 

"What  has  become  of  this  Tom?" 

He  lived  with  her  still,  and  was  in  as  high  favour  as 
ever.  Tom  had  paid  her  a  visit  the  day  before,  being  in 
attendance  on  his  mistress  on  her  late  journey.  From 
him  she  supposed  that  Miss  Polly  had  gained  intelligence 


160  JANE    TALBOT. 

of  Hannah's  situation,  and  of  her  being  succoured,  in  her 
distress,  by  me. 

"  Tom,  you  say,  was  her  letter-carrier.  Did  you  ever 
hear  from  him  with  whom  she  corresponded?  Did  she 
ever  write  to  Talbot?" 

"Oh,  yes.  Just  before  Talbot's  marriage,  she  often 
wrote  to  him.  Tom  used  to  talk  very  freely  in  the 
kitchen  about  his  mistress's  attachment,  and  always  told 
us  Avhat  reception  he  met  with.  Mr.  Talbot  seldom  con- 
descended to  write  any  answer." 

"I  suppose,  Hannah,  I  need  hardly  ask  whether  you 
have  any  specimen  of  Miss  Jessup's  writing  in  your  pos- 
session?" 

This  question  considerably  disconcerted  the  poor  wo- 
man. She  did  not  answer  me  till  I  had  repeated  the 
question. 

Why — yes ;  she  had — something — she  believed. 

"  I  presume  it  is  nothing  improper  to  be  disclosed :  if 
so,  I  should  be  glad  to  have  a  sight  of  it." 

She  hesitated ;  was  very  much  perplexed ;  denied  and 
confessed  alternately  that  she  possessed  some  of  Miss 
Jessup's  writing;  at  length  began  to  weep  very  bitterly. 

After  some  solicitation,  on  my  part,  to  be  explicit,  she 
consented  to  disclose  what  she  acknowledged  to  be  a  great 
fault.  The  substance  of  her  story  was  this : — 

Miss  Jessup,  on  a  certain  occasion,  locked  herself  up 
for  several  hours  in  her  chamber.  At  length  she  came 
out,  and  went  to  the  street-door,  apparently  with  an  inten- 
tion of  going  abroad.  Just  then  a  heavy  rain  began  to 
fall.  This  incident  produced  a  great  deal  of  impatience, 
and  after  waiting  some  time,  in  hopes  of  the  shower's 
ceasing,  and  frequently  looking  at  her  watch,  she  called 
for  an  umbrella.  Unhappily,  as  poor  Hannah  afterwards 
thought,  no  umbrella  could  be  found.  Her  own  had  been 
lent  to  a  friend  the  preceding  evening,  and  the  mother 
would  have  held  herself  most  'culpably  extravagant  to 
uncase  hers  without  a  most  palpable  necessity.  Miss 
Polly  was  preparing  to  go  out  unsheltered,  when  the  offi- 
cious Tom  interfered,  and  asked  her  if  he  could  do  what 
she  wanted.  At  first  she  refused  his  offer,  but,  the  mo- 
ther's importunities  to  stay  at  home  becoming  more  cla- 


JANE  TALBOT.  161 

morous,  she  consented  to  commission  Tom  to  drop  a  letter 
at  the  post-office.  This  he  was  to  do  with  the  utmost 
despatch,  and  promised  that  not  a  moment  should  be  lost. 
He  received  the  letter,  but,  instead  of  running  off  with 
it  immediately,  he  slipped  into  the  kitchen,  just  to  arm 
himself  against  the  storm  by  a  hearty  draught  of  strong 
beer. 

While  quaffing  his  nectar,  and  chattering  with  his  usual 
gayety,  Hannah,  who  had  long  owed  a  grudge  both  to  mis- 
tress and  man,  Avas  tempted  to  convey  the  letter  from 
Tom's  pocket,  where  it  was  but  half  deposited,  into  her 
own.  Her  only  motive  was  to  vex  and  disappoint  those 
whose  chief  pleasure  it  had  always  been  to  vex  and  dis- 
appoint her.  The  tankard  being  hastily  emptied,  he 
hastened  away  to  the  post-office.  When  he  arrived  there, 
he  felt  for  the  letter.  It  was  gone ;  dropped,  as  he  sup- 
posed, in  the  street.  In  great  confusion  he  returned, 
examining  very  carefully  the  gutters  and  porches  by  the 
way.  He  entered  the  kitchen  in  great  perplexity,  and 
inquired  of  Hannah  if  a  letter  had  not  fallen  from  his 
pocket  before  he  went  out. 

Hannah,  according  to  her  own  statements,  was  inca- 
pable of  inveterate  malice.  She  was  preparing  to  rid 
Tom  of  his  uneasiness,  when  he  was  summoned  to  the 
presence  of  his  lady.  He  thought  proper  to  extricate 
himself  from  all  difficulties  by  boldly  affirming  that  the 
letter  had  been  left  according  to  direction,  and  he  after- 
wards endeavoured  to  persuade  Hannah  that  it  had  been 
found  in  the  bottom  of  his  pocket. 

Every  day  increased  the  difficulty  of  disclosing  the  truth. 
Tom  and  Miss  Jessup  talked  no  more  on  the  subject,  and 
time,  and  new  provocations  from  her  mistress,  confirmed 
Hannah  in  her  resolution  of  retaining  the  paper. 

She  could  not  read,  and  was  afraid  of  trusting  anybody 
else  with  the  contents  of  this  epistle.  Several  times  she 
was  about  to  burn  it,  but  forbore  from  the  persuasion 
that  a  day  might  arrive  when  the  possession  would  be  of 
some  importance  to  her.  It  had  lain,  till  almost  forgotten, 
in  the  bottom  of  her  crazy  chest. 

I  rebuked  her,  with  great  severity,  for  her  conduct,  and 
insisted  on  her  making  all  the  atonement  in  her  power, 
14* 


162  JANE  TALBOT. 

by  delivering  up  the  letter  to  the  writer.  I  consented 
to  take  charge  of  it  for  that  purpose. 

You  will  judge  my  surprise,  when  I  received  a  letter, 
with  the  seal  unbroken,  directed  to  Mrs.  Fielder,  of  New 
York.  Jane  and  I  had  often  been  astonished  at  the 
minute  intelligence  which  her  mother  received  of  our 
proceedings ;  at  the  dexterity  this  secret  informant  had 
displayed  in  misrepresenting  and  falsely  construing  our 
actions.  The  informer  was  anonymous,  and  one  of  the 
letters  had  been  extorted  from  her  mother  by  Jane's 
urgent  solicitations.  This  I  had  frequently  perused,  and 
the  penmanship  was  still  familiar  to  my  recollection.  It 
bore  a  striking  resemblance  to  the  superscription  of  this 
letter,  and  was  equally  remote  from  Miss  Jessup's  ordi- 
nary handwriting.  Was  it  rash  to  infer  from  these  cir- 
cumstances that  the  secret  enemy,  whose  malice  had  been 
so  active  and  successful,  was  at  length  discovered? 

What  was  I  to  do  ?  Should  I  present  myself  before  Miss 
Jessup  with  this  letter  in  my  hand,  and  lay  before  her  my 
suspicions,  or  should  I  carry  it  to  Mrs.  Fielder,  to  whom 
it  was  directed  ?  My  curiosity  was  defeated  by  the  care- 
ful manner  in  which  it  was  folded ;  and  this  was  not  a  case 
in  which  I  deemed  myself  authorized  to  break  a  seal. 

After  much  reflection,  I  determined  to  call  upon  Miss 
Jessup.  I  meant  not  to  restore  her  the  letter,  unless  the 
course  our  conversation  should  take  made  it  proper.  I 
have  already  been  at  her  house.  She  was  not  at  home. 
I  am  to  call  again  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening. 

In  my  way  thither  I  passed  Mrs.  Talbot's  house. 
There  were  scarcely  any  tokens  of  its  being  inhabited. 
No  doubt  the  mother  and  child  have  returned  together  to 
New  York.  On  approaching  the  house,  my  heart,  too 
heavy  before,  became  a  burden  almost  insupportable.  I 
hastened  my  pace,  and  averted  my  eyes. 

I  am  now  shut  up  in  my  chamber  at  an  inn.  I  feel 
as  if  in  a  wilderness  of  savages,  where  all  my  safety 
consisted  in  solitude.  I  was  glad  not  to  meet  with  a 
human  being  whom  I  knew. 

What  I  shall  say  to  Miss  Jessup  when  I  see  her,  I  know 
not.  I  have  reason  to  believe  her  the  author  of  many 
slanders,  but  look  for  no  relief  from  the  mischiefs  they 


JANE   TALBOT.  163 

have  occasioned,  in  accusing  or  upbraiding  the  slanderer. 
She  has  likewise  disclosed  many  instances  of  guilty  con- 
duct, which  I  supposed  impossible  to  be  discovered.  I 
never  concealed  them  from  Mrs.  Talbot,  to  whom  a  tho- 
rough knowledge  of  my  character  was  indispensable ;  but 
I  was  unwilling  to  make  any  other  my  confessor.  In 
this  I  cannot  suppose  her  motives  to  have  been  very  bene- 
volent; but,  since  she  adhered  to  the  truth,  it  is  not  for 
me  to  arraign  her  motives. 

May  I  not  suspect  that  she  had  some  hand  in  the  forgery 
lately  come  to  light  ?  A  mind  like  hers  must  hate  a  suc- 
cessful rival.  To  persuade  Talbot  of  his  wife's  perfidy 
Was  at  least  to  dissolve  his  alliance  with  another;  and 
since  she  took  so  much  pains  to  gain  his  favour,  even  after 
his  marriage,  is  it  not  allowable  to  question  the  delicacy 
and  punctiliousness,  at  least,  of  her  virtue  ? 

Mrs.  Fielder's  aversion  to  me  is  chiefly  founded  on 
a  knowledge  of  my  past  errors.  She  thinks  them  too 
flagrant  to  be  atoned  for,  and  too  inveterate  to  be  cured. 
I  can  never  hope  to  subdue  perfectly  that  aversion,  and, 
though  Jane  can  never  be  happy  without  me,  I  alone  can- 
not make  her  happy.  On  my  own  account,  therefore, 
it  is  of  little  moment  what  she  believes.  But  her  own 
happiness  is  deeply  concerned  in  clearing  her  daughter's 
character  of  this  blackest  of  all  stains. 

Here  is  some  one  coming  up  the  stairs  towards  my 
apartment.  Surely  it  cannot  be  to  me  that  this  visit  is 
intended. 

****** 

Good  Heaven!  What  shall  I  do? 

It  was  Molly  that  has  just  left  me. 

My  heart  sunk  at  her  appearance.  I  had  made  up  my 
mind  to  separate  my  evil  destiny  from  that  of  Jane,  and 
could  only  portend  new  trials  and  difficulties  from  the  ap- 
pearance of  one  whom  I  supposed  her  messenger. 

The  poor  girl,  as  soon  as  she  saw  me,  began  to  sob  bit- 
terly, and  could  only  exclaim,  "  Oh,  sir !  Oh,  Mr.  Golden !" 

This  behaviour  was  enough  to  terrify  me.  I  trembled 
in  every  joint  while  I  faltered  out,  "I  hope  your  mistress 
is  well?" 

After  many  efforts,  I  prevailed  in  gaining  a  distinct 


164  JANE    TALBOT. 

account  of  my  friend's  situation.  This  good  girl,  by  the 
sympathy  she  always  expressed  in  her  mistress's  fortunes, 
by  her  silent  assiduities  and  constant  proofs  of  discretion 
and  affection,  had  gained  Mrs.  Talbot's  confidence ;  yet 
no  further  than  to  indulge  her  feelings  with  less  restraint 
in  Molly's  presence  than  in  that  of  any  other  person. 

I  learned  that  the  night  after  Mrs.  Fielder's  arrival  was 
spent  by  my  friend  in  sighs  and  restlessness.  Molly  lay 
in  the  same  chamber,  and  her  affectionate  heart  was  as 
much  a  stranger  to  repose  as  that  of  her  mistress.  She 
frequently  endeavoured  to  comfort  Mrs.  Talbot,  but  in 
vain. 

Next  day  she  did  not  rise  as  early  as  usual.  Her  mo- 
ther came  to  her  bedside,  and  inquired  affectionately  after 
her  health.  The  visit  was  received  with  smiling  and  af- 
fectionate complacency.  Her  indisposition  was  disguised, 
and  she  studied  to  persuade  Mrs.  Fielder  that  she  enjoyed 
her  usual  tranquillity.  She  rose,  and  attempted  to  eat, 
but  quickly  desisted,  and  after  a  little  while  retired  and 
locked  herself  up  in  her  chamber.  Even  Molly  was  not 
allowed  to  follow  her. 

In  this  way  that  and  the  ensuing  day  passed.  She  wore 
an  air  of  constrained  cheerfulness  in  her  mother's  presence ; 
affected  interest  in  common  topics ;  and  retired  at  every 
convenient  interval  to  her  chamber,  where  she  wept  in- 
cessantly. 

Mrs.  Fielder's  eye  was  watchful  and  anxious.  She 
addressed  Mrs.  Talbot  in  a  tender  and  maternal  accent ; 
seemed  solicitous  to  divert  her  attention  by  anecdotes  of 
New  York  friends ;  and  carefully  eluded  every  subject 
likely  to  recall  images  which  were  already  too  intimately 
present.  The  daughter  seemed  grateful  for  these  solici- 
tudes, and  appeared  to  fight  with  her  feelings  the  more 
resolutely  because  they  gave  pain  to  her  mother. 

All  this  was  I  compelled  to  hear  from  the  communi- 
cative Molly. 

My  heart  bled  at  this  recital.  Too  well  did  I  predict 
what  effect  her  compliance  would  have  on  her  peace. 

I  asked  if  Jane  had  not  received  a  letter  from  me. 

Yes;  two  letters  had  come  to  the  door  at  once,  this 
morning, — one  for  Mrs.  Fielder  and  the  other  for  her 


JANE   TALBOT.  165 

daughter.  Jane  expected  its  arrival,  and  showed  the  ut- 
most impatience  when  the  hour  approached.  She  walked 
about  her  chamber,  listened,  with  a  start,  to  every  sound, 
continually  glanced  from  her  window  at  the  passengers. 

She  did  not  conceal  from  Molly  the  object  of  her  solici- 
tude. The  good  girl  endeavoured  to  soothe  her,  but  she 
checked  her  with  vehemence: — "Talk  not  to  me,  Molly. 
On  this  hour  depends  my  happiness, — my  life.  The 
sacrifice  my  mother  asks  is  too  much  or  too  little.  In 
bereaving  me  of  my  love,  she  must  be  content  to  take 
my  existence  also.  They  never  shall  be  separated." 

The  weeping  girl  timorously  suggested  that  she  had 
already  given  me  up. 

"True,  Molly,  in  a  rash  moment  I  told  him  that  we 
meet  no  more ;  but  two  days  of  misery  have  convinced  me 
that  it  cannot  be.  His  answer  will  decide  my  fate  as  to 
this  world.  If  he  accept  my  dismissal,  I  am  thenceforth 
undone.  I  will  die.  Blessing  my  mother,  and  wishing 
her  a  less  stubborn  child,  I  will  die" 

These  last  words  were  uttered  Avith  an  air  the  most  des- 
perate, and  an  emphasis  the  most  solemn.  They  chilled 
me  to  the  heart,  and  I  was  unable  longer  to  keep  my  seat. 
Molly,  unbidden,  went  on. 

"  Your  letter  at  last  came.  I  ran  down  to  receive  it. 
Mrs.  Fielder  was  at  the  street-door  before  me,  but  she 
suffered  me  to  carry  my  mistress's  letter  to  her.  Poor 
lady !  She  met  me  at  the  stair-head,  snatched  the  paper 
eagerly,  but  trembled  so  she  could  not  open  it.  At  last 
she  threw  herself  on  the  bed,  and  ordered  me  to  read  it 
to  her.  I  did  so.  At  every  sentence  she  poured  forth 
fresh  tears,  and  exclaimed,  wringing  her  hands,  '  Oh,  what 
— what  a  heart  have  I  madly  cast  away  !' " 

The  girl  told  me  much  more,  which  I  am  unable  to  re- 
peat. Her  visit  was  self-prompted.  She  had  caught 
a  glimpse  of  me  as  I  passed  the  door,  and,  without  men- 
tioning her  purpose  to  her  mistress,  set  out  as  soon  as  it 
was  dusk. 

"  Cannot  you  do  something,  Mr.  Golden,  for  my  mis- 
tress?" continued  the  girl.  "She  will  surely  die  if  she 
has  not  her  own  way;  and,  to  judge  from  your  appear- 
ance, it  is  as  great  a  cross  to  you  as  to  her." 


166  JANE  TALBOT. 

Heaven  knows,  that,  with  me,  it  is  nothing  but  the 
choice  of  dreadful  evils.  Jane  is  the  mistress  of  her 
own  destiny.  It  is  not  I  that  have  renounced  her,  but 
she  that  has  banished  me.  She  has  only  to  recall  the 
sentence,  which  she  confesses  to  have  been  hastily  and 
thoughtlessly  pronounced,  and  no  power  on  earth  shall 
sever  me  from  her  side. 

Molly  asked  my  permission  to  inform  her  mistress  of 
my  being  in  the  city,  and  conjured  me  not  to  leave  it, 
during  the  next  day  at  least.  I  readily  consented,  and 
requested  her  to  bring  me  Avord  in  the  morning  in  Avhat 
state  things  were. 

She  offered  to  conduct  me  to  her  then.  It  was  easy 
to  effect  an  intervieAV  Avithout  Mrs.  Fielder's  knoAvledge ; 
but  I  was  sick  of  all  clandestine  proceedings,  and  had 
promised  Mrs.  Fielder  not  to  seek  another  meeting  Avith 
her  daughter.  I  was  likewise  anxious  to  visit  Miss  Jessup, 
and  ascertain  what  was  to  be  done  by  means  of  the  letter 
in  my  pocket. 

Can  I,  my  friend, — can  I,  without  unappeasable  re- 
morse, pursue  this  scheme  of  a  distant  voyage  ?  Suppose 
some  fatal  despair  should  seize  my  friend.  Suppose — it 
is  impossible.  I  Avill  not  stir  till  she  has  had  time  to  de- 
liberate ;  till  resignation  to  her  mother's  AAill  shall  prove 
a  task  that  is  practicable. 

Should  I  not  be  the  most  fragrant  of  villains  if  I  de- 
serted one  that  loved  me  ?  My  own  happiness  is  not  a 
question.  I  cannot  be  a  selfish  being  and  a  true  lover. 
Happiness,  without  her,  is  indeed  a  chimerical  thought ; 
but  my  exile  would  be  far  from  miserable,  while  assured 
of  her  tranquillity,  and  possession  would  confer  no  peace, 
if  she  whom  I  possessed  Avere  not  happier  than  a  different 
destiny  Avould  make  her. 

Why  have  all  these  thoughts  been  suspended  for  the 
last  two  days  ?  I  had  wrought  myself  up  to  a  firm  per- 
suasion that  marriage  Avas  the  only  remedy  for  all  evils ; 
that  our  efforts  to  regain  the  favour  of  her  mother  would 
be  most  likely  to  succeed  when  that  Avhich  she  endea- 
voured to  prevent  was  irretrievable.  Yet  that  persuasion 
was  dissipated  by  her  last  letter.  That  convinced  me 
that  her  lot  would  only  be  made  miserable  by  being  united 


JANE   TALBOT.  167 

to  mine.     Yet  now,  is  it  not  evident  that  our  fates  must 
be  inseparable? 

What  a  fantastic  impediment  is  this  aversion  of  her 
mother !  And  yet,  can  I  safely  and  deliberately  call  it 
fantastic?  Let  me  sever  myself  from  myself,  and  judge 
impartially.  Be  my  heart  called  upon  to  urge  its  claims 
to  such  affluence,  such  love,  such  treasures  of  personal 
and  mental  excellence,  as  Jane  has  to  bestow.  Would  it 
not  be  dumb?  It  is  not  so  absurd  as  to  plead  its  devo- 
tion to  her  as  an  atonement  for  every  past  guilt,  and  as 
affording  secui'ity  for  future  uprightness. 

On  my  own  merit  I  am,  and  ever  have  been,  mute.  I 
have  plead  with  Mrs.  Fielder,  not  for  myself,  but  for 
Jane.  It  is  her  happiness  that  forms  the  object  of  my 
supreme  regard.  I  am  eager  to  become  hers,  because 
her,  not  because  my  happiness,  though  my  happiness  cer- 
tainly does,  demand  it. 

I  am  then  resolved.  Jane's  decision  shall  be  delibe- 
rate. I  will  not  bias  her  by  prayers  or  blandishments. 
Her  resolution  shall  spring  from  her  own  judgment,  and 
shall  absolutely  govern  me.  I  will  rivet  myself  to  her 
side,  or  vanish  forever,  according  to  her  pleasure. 

I  wish  I  had  written  a  few  words  to  her  by  Molly,  as- 
suring her  of  my  devotion  to  her  will.  And  yet,  stands 
she  in  need  of  any  new  assurances  ?  She  has  banished 
me.  I  am  preparing  to  fly.  She  recalls  me,  and  it  is 
impossible  to  depart. 

I  must  go  to  Miss  Jessup's.  I  will  take  up  the  pen 
('tis  my  sole  amusement)  when  I  return. 

****** 

I  went  to  Miss  Jessup's ;  her  still  sealed  letter  in  my 
pocket ;  my  mind  confused,  perplexed,  sorrowful ;  wholly 
undetermined  as  to  the  manner  of  addressing  her,  or  the 
use  to  be  made  of  this  important  paper.  I  designedly 
prolonged  my  walk,  in  hopes  of  forming  some  distinct 
conception  of  the  purpose  for  which  I  was  going,  but 
only  found  myself  each  moment  sinking  into  new  per- 
plexities. Once  I  had  taken  the  resolution  of  opening 
her  letter,  and  turned  my  steps  towards  the  fields,  that 
I  might  examine  it  at  leisure ;  but  there  was  something 


168  JANE   TALBOT. 

disgraceful  in  the  violation  of  a  seal,  which  scared  me 
away  from  this  scheme. 

At  length,  reproaching  myself  for  this  indecision,  and 
leaving  my  conduct  to  be  determined  by  circumstances, 
I  went  directly  to  her  house. 

Miss  Jessup  was  unwell ;  was  unfit  to  see  company ; 
desired  me  to  send  up  my  name.  I  did  not  mention  my 
name  to  the  servant,  but  replied  I  had  urgent  business, 
which  a  few  minutes'  conversation  would  despatch.  I  was 
admitted. 

I  found  the  lady  in  a  careless  garb,  reclining  on  a  sofa, 
wan,  pale,  and  of  a  sickly  aspect  On  recognising  me, 
she  assumed  a  languidly-smiling  air,  and  received  me  with 
much  civility.  I  took  my  seat  near  her.  She  began  to 
talk  :— 

"  I  am  very  unwell ;  got  a  terrible  cold,  coming  from 
Dover;  been  laid  up  ever  since;  a  teasing  cough,  no 
appetite,  and  worse  spirits  than  I  ever  suffered.  Glad 
you've  come  to  relieve  my  solitude ;  not  a  single  soul  to 
see  me ;  Mrs.  Talbot  never  favours  a  body  with  a  visit. 
Pray,  how's  the  dear  girl  ?  Hear  her  mother's  come ; 
heard,  it  seems,  of  your  intimacy  with  Miss  Seeker ;  de- 
termined to  revenge  your  treason  to  her  goddess ;  vows 
she  shall  henceforth  have  no  more  to  say  to  you." 

While  waiting  for  admission,  I  formed  hastily  the  re- 
solution in  what  manner  to  conduct  this  interview.  My 
deportment  was  so  solemn,  that  the  chatterer,  glancing 
at  my  face  in  the  course  of  her  introductory  harangue, 
felt  herself  suddenly  chilled  and  restrained : — 

"Why,  what  now,  Golden?  You  are  mighty  grave, 
methinks.  Do  you  repent  already  of  your  new  attach- 
ment ?  Has  the  atmosphere  of  Philadelphia  reinstated 
Jane  in  all  her  original  rights?" 

"Proceed,  madam.  When  you  are  tired  of  raillery, 
I  shall  beg  your  attention  to  a  subject  in  which  your 
honour  is  deeply  concerned;  to  a  subject  which  allows 
not  of  a  jest." 

"Nay,"  said  she,  in  some  little  trepidation,  "if  you 
have  any  thing  to  communicate,  I  am  already  prepared 
to  receive  it." 

"  Indeed,  Miss  Jessup,  I  have  something  to  communi- 


JANE    TALBOT.  169 

cate.  A  man  of  more  refinement  and  address  than  I  can 
pretend  to  would  make  this  communication  in  a  more  cir- 
cuitous and  artful  manner ;  and  a  man  less  deeply  inte- 
rested in  the  establishment  of  truth  would  act  with  more 
caution  and  forbearance.  I  have  no  excuse  to  plead,  no 
forgiveness  to  ask,  for  what  I  am  now  going  to  disclose. 
I  demand  nothing  from  you  but  your  patient  attention 
while  I  lay  before  you  the  motives  of  my  present  visit. 

"You  are  no  stranger  to  my  attachment  to  Mrs.  Tal- 
bot.  That  my  passion  is  requited  is  likewise  known  to 
you.  That  her  mother  objects  to  her  union  with  me,  and 
raises  her  objections  on  certain  improprieties  in  my  cha- 
racter and  conduct,  I  suppose,  has  already  come  to  your 
knowledge. 

"You  may  naturally  suppose  that  I  am  desirous  of 
gaining  her  favour ;  but  it  is  not  by  the  practice  of  fraud 
and  iniquity,  and  therefore  I  have  not  begun  with  denying 
or  concealing  my  faults.  Very  faulty,  very  criminal, 
have  I  been ;  to  deny  that  would  be  adding  to  the  number 
of  my  transgressions:  but  I  assure  you,  Miss  Jessup, 
there  have  been  limits  to  my  follies ;  there  is  a  boundary 
beyond  which  I  have  never  gone.  Mrs.  Fielder  imagines 
me  much  more  criminal  than  I  really  am,  and  her  opinion 
of  me — which,  if  limited  in  the  strictest  manner  by  my 
merits,  would  amply  justify  her  aversion  to  my  marriage 
with  her  daughter — is,  however,  carried  further  than  jus- 
tice allows. 

"  Mrs.  Fielder  has  been  somewhat  deceived  with  regard 
to  me.  She  thinks  me  capable  of  a  guilt  of  which,  vicious 
as  I  am,  I  am  yet  incapable.  Nay,  she  imagines  I  have 
actually  committed  a  crime  of  which  I  am  wholly  innocent. 

"What  think  you,  madam,"  (taking  her  hand,  and  eye- 
ing her  with  steadfastness;)  "she  thinks  me  at  once  so 
artful  and  so  wicked  that  I  have  made  the  wife  unfaithful 
to  the  husband ;  that  I  have  persuaded  Mrs.  Talbot  to 
forget  Avhat  was  due  to  herself,  her  fame,  and  to  trample 
on  her  marriage-vow. 

"  This  opinion  is  not  a  vague  conjecture  on  suspicion. 

It  is  founded  in  what  seems  to  be  the  most  infallible  of 

all  evidence ;  the  written  confession  of  her  daughter.    The 

paper  appears  to   be  a  letter  which  was  addressed  to 

15 


170  JANE    TALBOT. 

the  seducer  soon  after  the  guilty  interview.  This  paper 
came  indirectly  into  Mrs.  Fielder's  hands.  To  justify  her 
charge  against  us,  she  has  shown  it  to  us.  Now,  madam, 
the  guilt  imputed  to  us  is  a  stranger  to  our  hearts.  The 
crime  which  this  letter  confesses  never  was  committed, 
and  the  letter  which  contains  the  confession  never  was 
written  by  Jane.  It  is  a  forgery. 

"Mrs.  Fielder's  misapprehension,  so  far  as  it  relates  to 
me,  is  of  very  little  moment.  I  can  hope  for  nothing  from 
the  removal  of  this  error  while  so  many  instances  of  real 
misconduct  continue  to  plead  against  me,  but  her  daugh- 
ter's happiness  is  materially  affected  by  it,  and  for  her 
sake  I  am  anxious  to  vindicate  her  fame  from  this  reproach. 

"No  doubt,  Miss  Jessup,  you  have  often  asked  me  in 
your  heart,  since  I  began  to  speak,  why  I  have  stated 
this  transaction  to  you.  What  interest  have  you  in  our 
concerns?  What  proofs  of  affection  or  esteem  have  you 
received  from  us,  that  should  make  you  zealous  in  our 
behalf  ?  Or  what  relation  has  your  interest  in  any  respect 
to  our  weal  or  woe  ?  Why  should  you  be  called  upon  as 
a  counsellor  or  umpire  in  the  little  family  dissensions  of 
Mrs.  Talbot  and  her  mother? 

"And  do  indeed  these  questions  rise  in  your  heart, 
Miss  Jessup  ?  Does  not  memory  enable  you  to  account 
for  conduct  which,  to  the  distant  and  casual  observer,  to 
those  who  know  not  what  you  know,  would  appear  strange 
and  absurd? 

"Recollect  yourself.  I  will  give  you  a  moment  to 
recall  the  past.  Think  over  all  that  has  occurred  since 
your  original  acquaintance  with  Mrs.  Talbot  or  her  hus- 
band, and  tell  me,  solemnly  and  truly,  whether  you  dis- 
cern not  the  cause  of  his  mistake.  Tell  me  whether  you 
know  not  the  unhappy  person  whom  some  delusive  pros- 
pect of  advantage,  some  fatal  passion,  has  tempted  to 
belie  the  innocent." 

I  am  no  reader  of  faces,  my  friend.  I  drew  no  infer- 
ences from  the  confusion  sufficiently  visible  in  Miss  Jessup. 
She  made  no  attempt  to  interrupt  me,  but  quickly  with- 
drew her  eye  from  my  gaze ;  hung  her  head  upon  her 
bosom ;  a  hectic  flush  now  and  then  shot  across  her  cheek. 
But  these  would  have  been  produced  by  a  similar  address, 


JANE    TALBOT.  171 

delivered  with  much  solemnity  and  emphasis,  in  any  one, 
however  innocent. 

I  believe  there  was  no  anger  in  my  looks.  Supposing 
her  to  have  been  the  author  of  this  stratagem,  it  awakened 
in  me  not  resentment,  but  pity.  I  paused ;  but  she  made 
no  answer  to  my  expostulation.  At  length  I  resumed, 
with  augmented  earnestness,  grasping  her  hand :  — 

"Tell  me,  I  conjure  you,  what  you  know.  Be  not  de- 
terred by  any  self-regard;  but,  indeed,  how  can  your 
interest  be  affected  by  clearing  up  a  mistake  so  fatal  to 
the  happiness  of  one  for  whom  you  have  always  professed 
a  friendly  regard? 

"  Will  your  own  integrity  or  reputation  be  brought  into 
question?  In  order  to  exculpate  your  friend,  will  it  be 
necessary  to  accuse  yourself?  Have  you  been  guilty  in 
withholding  the  discovery  ?  Have  you  been  guilty  in  con- 
triving the  fraud  ?  Did  your  own  hand  pen  the  fatal  letter 
which  is  now  brought  in  evidence  against  my  friend? 
Were  you  yourself  guilty  of  counterfeiting  hands,  in 
order  to  drive  the  husband  into  a  belief  of  his  wife's 
perfidy?" 

A  deadly  paleness  overspread  her  countenance  at  these 
words.  I  pitied  her  distress  and  confusion,  and  waited 
not  for  an  answer  which  she  was  unable  to  give. 

"Yes,  Miss  Jessup,  I  well  know  your  concern  in  this 
transaction.  I  mean  not  to  distress  you ;  I  mean  not  to 
put  you  to  unnecessary  shame;  I  have  no  indignation 
or  enmity  against  you.  I  came  hither  not  to  injure  or 
disgrace  you,  but  to  confer  on  you  a  great  and  real  bene- 
fit ;  to  enable  you  to  repair  the  evil  which  your  infatuation 
has  occasioned.  I  want  to  relieve  your  conscience  from 
the  sense  of  having  wronged  one  that  never  wronged  you. 

"Do  not  imagine  that  in  all  this  I  am  aiming  at  my 
own  selfish  advantage.  This  is  not  the  mother's  only 
objection  to  me,  or  only  proof  of  that  frailty  she  justly 
ascribes  to  me.  To  prove  me  innocent  of  this  charge 
will  not  reconcile  her  to  her  daughter's  marriage.  It 
will  only  remove  one  insuperable  impediment  to  her  re- 
conciliation with  her  daughter. 

"Mrs.  Fielder  is,  at  this  moment,  not  many  steps  from 
this  spot.  Permit  me  to  attend  you  to  her.  I  will  intro- 


172  JANE    TALBOT. 

ducc  the  subject.  I  will  tell  her  that  you  come  to  clear 
her  daughter  from  an  unmerited  charge,  to  confess 
that  the  unfinished  letter  was  taken  by  you,  and  that, 
by  additions  in  a  feigned  hand,  you  succeeded  in  making 
that  an  avowal  of  abandoned  wickedness,  which  was  origi- 
nally innocent,  at  least,  though  perhaps  indiscreet." 

All  this  was  uttered  in  a  very  rapid  but  solemn  accent. 
I  gave  her  no  time  to  recollect  herself;  no  leisure  for 
denial  or  evasion.  I  talked  as  if  her  agency  was  already 
ascertained ;  and  the  feelings  she  betrayed  at  this  abrupt 
and  unaware  attack  confirmed  my  suspicions. 

After  a  long  pause,  and  a  struggle,  as  it  were,  for 
utterance,  she  faltered  out,  "Mr.  Golden,  you  see  I  am 
very  sick :  this  conduct  has  been  very  strange.  Nothing, 
— I  know  nothing  of  what  you  have  been  saying.  I 
wonder  at  your  talking  to  me  in  this  manner :  you  might 
as  well  address  yourself  in  this  style  to  one  you  never  saw. 
What  grounds  can  you  have  for  suspecting  me  of  any  con- 
cern in  this  transaction?" 

"Ah,  madam,"  replied  I,  "  I  see  you  have  not  strength 
of  mind  to  confess  a  fault.  Why  will  you  compel  me  to 
produce  the  proof  that  you  have  taken  an  unauthorized 
part  in  Mrs.  Talbot's  concerns  ?  Do  you  imagine  that  the 
love  you  bore  her  husband,  even  after  his  marriage,  the 
efforts  you  used  to  gain  his  favour,  his  contemptuous  re- 
jection of  your  advances, — can  you  imagine  that  these 
things  are  not  known  ? 

"Why  you  should  endeavour  to  defraud  the  wife  of 
her  husband's  esteem,  is  a  question  which  your  own 
heart  only  can  answer.  Why  you  should  watch  Mrs. 
Talbot's  conduct,  and  communicate  your  discoveries,  in 
anonymous  letters  and  a  hand  disguised,  to  her  mother, 
I  pretend  not  to  say.  I  came  not  to  inveigh  against 
the  folly  or  malignity  of  such  conduct.  I  came  not  even 
to  censure  it.  I  am  not  entitled  to  sit  in  judgment  over 
you.  My  regard  for  mother  and  daughter  makes  me 
anxious  to  rectify  an  error  fatal  to  their  peace.  There 
is  but  one  way  of  doing  this  effectually,  with  the  least  in- 
jury to  your  character.  I  would  not  be  driven  to  the 
necessity  of  employing  public  means  to  convince  the 
mother  that  the  charge  is  false,  and  that  you  were  the 


JANE   TALBOT.  173 

calumniator ;  means  that  will  humble  and  disgrace  you 
infinitely  more  than  a  secret  interview  and  frank  confes- 
sion from  your  own  lips. 

"  To  deny  and  to  prevaricate  in  a  case  like  this  is  to  be 
expected  from  one  capable  of  acting  as  you  have  acted ; 
but  it  will  avail  you  nothing.  It  will  merely  compel  me  to 
have  recourse  to  means  less  favourable  to  you.  My  re- 
luctance to  employ  them  arises  from  regard  to  you,  for 
I  repeat  that  I  have  no  enmity  for  you,  and  propose,  in 
reality,  not  only  Mrs.  Talbot's  advantage,  but  your  own." 

I  cannot  paint  the  alarm  and  embarrassment  which 
these  words  occasioned.  Tears  afforded  her  some  relief, 
but  shame  had  deprived  her  of  all  utterance. 

"Let  me  conjure  you,"  resumed  I,  "to  go  with  me  this 
moment  to  Mrs.  Fielder.  In  ten  minutes  all  may  be 
over.  I  will  save  you  the  pain  of  speaking.  Only  be 
present  while  I  explain  the  matter.  Your  silent  acquies- 
cence will  be  all  that  I  shall  demand." 

"Impossible!"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  kind  of  agony;  "I 
am  already  sick  to  death  !  I  cannot  move  a  step  on  such 
a  purpose.  I  don't  know  Mrs.  Fielder,  and  can  never 
look  her  in  the  face." 

"A  letter,  then,"  replied  I,  "will  do,  perhaps,  as  well. 
Here  are  pen  and  paper.  Send  to  her,  by  me,  a  few 
lines.  Defer  all  circumstance  and  comment,  and  merely 
inform  her  who  the  author  of  this  forgery  was.  Here," 
continued  I,  producing  the  letter  which  Talbot  had  shown 
to  Mrs.  Fielder, — "  here  is  the  letter  in  which  my  friend's 
hand  is  counterfeited,  and  she  is  made  to  confess  a  guilt 
to  the  very  thought  of  which  she  has  ever  been  a  stranger. 
Enclose  it  in  a  paper,  acknowledging  the  stratagem  to  be 
yours.  It  is  done  in  a  few  words,  and  in  half  a  minute." 

My  impetuosity  overpowered  all  opposition  and  remon- 
strance. The  paper  was  before  her,  the  pen  in  her 
reluctant  fingers;  but  that  was  all. 

"  There  may  never  be  a  future  opportunity  of  repair- 
ing your  misconduct.  You  are  sick,  you  say;  and,  in- 
deed, your  countenance  bespeaks  some  deeply-rooted 
malady.  You  cannot  be  certain  but  that  this  is  the  last 
opportunity  you  may  ever  enjoy.  When  sunk  upon  the 
bed  of  death,  and  unable  to  articulate  your  sentiments, 
15* 


174  JANE   TALBOT. 

?)u  may  unavailingly  regret  the  delay  of  this  confession, 
ou  may  die  with  the  excruciating  thought  of  having 
blasted  the  fame  of  an  innocent  woman,  and  of  having 
sown  eternal  discord  between  mother  and  child." 

I  said  a  good  deal  more  in  this  strain,  by  which  she 
was  deeply  affected ;  but  she  demanded  time  to  reflect. 
She  would  do  nothing  then ;  she  would  do  all  I  wished 
to-morrow.  She  was  too  unwell  to  see  anybody,  to  hold 
a  pen,  at  present. 

"All  I  want,"  said  I,  "are  but  few  words.  You  can- 
not be  at  a  loss  for  these.  I  will  hold,  I  will  guide  your 
hand;  I  will  write  what  you  dictate.  Will  you  put  your 
hand  to  something  which  I  will  write  this  moment  in 
your  presence  and  subject  to  your  revision  ?" 

I  did  not  stay  for  her  consent,  but,  seizing  the  pen, 
put  down  hastily  these  Avords  : — 

"Madam:  the  enclosed  letter  has  led  you  into  mis- 
take. It  has  persuaded  you  that  your  daughter  was 
unfaithful  to  her  vows ;  but  know,  madam,  that  the  con- 
cluding paragraph  was  written  by  me.  I  found  the  let- 
ter unfinished  on  Mrs.  Talbot's  desk.  I  took  it  thence 
without  her  knowledge,  and  added  the  concluding  para- 
graph, in  a  hand  as  much  resembling  hers  as  possible, 
and  conveyed  it  to  the  hands  of  her  husband." 

This  hasty  scribble  I  read  to  her,  and  urged  her,  by 
every  consideration  my  invention  could  suggest,  to  sign 
it.  But  no;  she  did  not  deny  the  truth  of  the  state- 
ment it  contained,  but  she  must  have  time  to  recollect 
herself.  Her  head  was  rent  to  pieces  by  pain.  She 
was  in  too  much  confusion  to  allow  her  to  do  any  thing 
just  now  deliberately. 

I  now  produced  the  letter  I  received  from  Hannah 
Seeker,  and  said,  "I  see,  madam,  you  will  compel  me  to 
preserve  no  measures  with  you.  There  is  a  letter  which 
you  wrote  to  Mrs.  Fielder.  Its  contents  were  so  im- 
portant that  you  would  not  at  first  trust  a  servant  with 
the  delivery  of  it  at  the  office.  This,  however,  you  were 
finally  compelled  to  do.  A  fellow-servant,  however,  stole 
it  from  your  messenger,  and,  instead  of  being  delivered 
according  to  its  address,  it  has  lately  come  into  my  hands. 

"No  doubt,"  (showing  the  superscription,  but  not  per- 


JANE   TALBOT.  175 

mitting  her  to  see  that  the  seal  was  unbroken,)  "  no  doubt 
you  recognise  the  hand  ;  the  hand  of  that  anonymous 
detractor  who  had  previously  taken  so  much  pains  to 
convince  the  husband  that  his  wife  was  an  adulteress  and 
a  prostitute." 

Had  I  foreseen  the  effect  which  this  disclosure  would 
have  had,  I  should  have  hesitated.  After  a  few  convul- 
sive breathings,  she  fainted.  I  was  greatly  alarmed, 
and,  calling  in  a  female  servant,  I  stayed  till  she  revived. 
I  thought  it  but  mercy  to  leave  her  alone,  and,  giving 
directions  to  the  servant  where  I  might  be  found,  and 
requesting  her  to  tell  her  mistress  that  I  would  call  again 
early  in  the  morning,  I  left  the  house. 

I  returned  hither,  and  am  once  more  shut  up  in 
my  solitary  chamber.  I  am  in  want  of  sleep,  but  my 
thoughts  must  be  less  tumultuous  before  that  blessing  can 
be  hoped  for.  All  is  still  in  the  house  and  in  the  city, 
and  the  ':  cloudy  morning"  of  the  watchman  tells  me 
that  midnight  is  past.  I  have  already  written  much,  but 
must  write  on. 

What,  my  friend,  can  this  letter  contain?  The  belief 
that  the  contents  are  known  and  the  true  writer  dis- 
covered produced  strange  effects.  I  am  afraid  there 
was  some  duplicity  in  my  conduct.  But  the  concealment 
of  the  unbroken  seal  was  little  more  than  chance.  Had 
she  inquired  whether  the  letter  was  opened,  I  should  not 
have  deceived  her. 

Perhaps,  however,  I  ascribe  too  much  to  this  discovery. 
Miss  Jessup  was  evidently  very  ill.  The  previous  con- 
versation had  put  her  fortitude  to  a  severe  test.  The 
tide  was  already  so  high,  that  the  smallest  increase  suf- 
ficed to  overwhelm  her.  Methinks  I  might  have  gained 
my  purpose  with  less  injury  to  her. 

But  what  purpose  have  I  gained?  I  have  effected 
nothing ;  I  am  as  far,  perhaps  further  than  ever  from 
vanquishing  her  reluctance.  A  night's  reflection  may 
fortify  her  pride,  may  furnish  some  expedient  for  eluding 
my  request.  Nay,  she  may  refuse  to  see  me  when  I 
call  on  the  morrow,  and  I  cannot  force  myself  into  her 
presence. 

If  all  this  should  happen,  what  will  be  left  for  me  to 


176  JANE    TALBOT. 

do  ?  That  deserves  some  consideration.  This  letter  of 
Miss  Jessup's  may  possibly  contain  the  remedy  for  many 
evils.  What  use  shall  I  make  of  it  ?  How  shall  I  get 
at  its  contents  ? 

There  is  but  one  way.  I  must  carry  it  to  Mrs.  Fielder, 
and  deliver  it  to  her,  to  whom  it  is  addressed.  Carry  it 
myself?  Venture  into  her  presence  by  whom  I  am  so 
much  detested  ?  She  will  tremble  with  mingled  indigna- 
tion and  terror  at  the  sight  of  me.  I  cannot  hope  a 
patient  audience.  And  can  I,  in  such  circumstances, 
rely  on  my  own  equanimity?  How  can  I  endure  the 
looks  of  one  to  whom  I  am  a  viper,  a  demon ;  who,  not 
content  with  hating  me  for  that  which  really  merits 
hatred,  imputes  to  me  a  thousand  imaginary  crimes  ? 

Such  is  the  lot  of  one  that  has  forfeited  his  reputation. 
Having  once  been  guilty,  the  returning  path  to  rectitude 
is  forever  barred  against  him.  His  conduct  will  almost 
always  be  liable  to  a  double  construction ;  and  who  will 
suppose  the  influence  of  good  motives,  when  experience 
has  proved  the  influence,  in  former  cases,  of  evil  ones? 

Jane  Talbot  is  young,  lovely,  and  the  heiress,  provided 
she  retain  the  favour  of  her  adopted  mother,  of  a  splen- 
did fortune.  I  am  poor,  indolent,  devoted,  not  to  sen- 
sual, but  to  visionary  and  to  costly,  luxuries.  How  shall 
such  a  man  escape  the  imputation  of  sordid  and  selfish 
motives  ? 

How  shall  he  prove  that  he  counterfeits  no  passion, 
employs  no  clandestine  or  illicit  means,  to  retain  the 
affections  of  such  a  woman.  Will  his  averments  of  dis- 
interested motives  be  believed  ?  Why  should  they  be 
believed?  How  easily  are  assertions  made,  and  how 
silly  to  credit  declarations  contradicted  by  the  tenor  of 
a  man's  whole  conduct ! 

But  I  can  truly  aver  that  my  motives  are  disinterested. 
Does  not  my  character  make  a  plentiful  and  independent 
provision,  of  more  value  to  me,  more  necessary  to  my 
happiness  than  to  that  of  most  other  men  ?  Can  I  place 
my  hand  upon  my  heart,  and  affirm  that  her  fortune  has 
no  part  in  the  zeal  with  which  I  have  cultivated  Jane's 
affections  ?  There  are  few  tenants  of  this  globe  to  whom 
wealth  is  wholly  undesirable,  and  very  few  whose  actual 


JANE   TALBOT.  177 

poverty,  whose  indolent  habits,  and  whose  relish  for 
expensive  pleasure,  make  it  more  desirable  than  to  me. 

Mrs.  Fielder  is  averse  to  her  daughter's  wishes.  While 
this  aversion  endures,  marriage,  instead  of  enriching  me, 
will  merely  reduce  my  wife  to  my  own  destitute  condition. 
How  are  impartial  observers,  how  is  Mrs.  Fielder,  to 
construe  my  endeavours  to  subdue  this  aversion,  and  my 
declining  marriage  till  this  obstacle  is  overcome  ?  Will 
they  ascribe  it  merely  to  reluctance  to  bereave  the  object 
of  my  love  of  that  affluence  and  those  comforts  without 
which,  in  my  opinion,  she  would  not  be  happy?  Yet  this 
is  true.  My  own  experience  has  taught  me  in  what  de- 
gree a  luxurious  education  endears  to  us  the  means  of  an 
easy  and  elegant  subsistence.  Shall  I  be  deaf  to  this  les- 
son ?  Shall  I  rather  listen  to  the  splendid  visions  of  my 
friend,  who  thinks  my  love  will  sufficiently  compensate 
her  for  every  suffering, — who  seems  to  hold  these  enjoy- 
ments in  contempt,  and  describes  an  humble  and  indus- 
trious life  as  teeming  with  happiness  and  dignity':' 

These  are  charming  visions.  My  heart  is  frequently 
credulous,  and  is  almost  raised,  by  her  bewitching  elo- 
quence, to  the  belief  that,  by  bereaving  her  of  friends 
and  property,  I  confer  on  her  a  benefit.  I  place  her  in 
a  sphere  where  all  the  resources  of  her  fortitude  and 
ingenuity  will  be  brought  into  use. 

But  this,  with  me,  is  only  a  momentary  elevation. 
More  sober  views  are  sure  to  succeed.  Yet  why  have  I 
deliberately  exhorted  Jane  to  become  mine  ?  Because  I 
trust  to  the  tenderness  of  her  mother.  That  tenderness 
will  not  allow  her  wholly  to  abandon  her  beloved  child, 
who  has  hitherto  had  no  rival,  and  is  likely  to  have  no 
successor  in  her  love.  The  evil,  she  will  think,  cannot 
be  repaired;  but  some  of  its  consequences  may  be  ob- 
viated or  lightened.  Intercession  and  submission  shall 
not  be  wanting.  Jane  will  never  suffer  her  heart  to  be 
estranged  from  her  mother.  Reverence  and  gratitude 
will  always  maintain  their  place.  And  yet,  confidence 
is  sometimes  shaken ;  doubts  insinuate  themselves.  Is 
not  Mrs.  Fielder's  temper  ardent  and  inflexible?  Will 
her  anger  be  so  easily  appeased  ?  In  a  contest  like  this, 
will  she  allow  herself  to  be  vanquished?  And  shall  I, 


178  JANE    TALBOT. 

indeed,  sever  hearts  so  excellent?  Shall  I  be  the  author 
of  such  exquisite  and  lasting  misery  to  a  woman  like 
Mrs.  Fielder?  and  shall  I  find  that  misery  compensated 
by  the  happiness  of  her  daughter  ?  What  pure  and  un- 
mingled  joy  will  the  daughter  taste,  while  conscious  of 
having  destroyed  the  peace,  and  perhaps  hastened  the 
end,  of  one  who,  with  regard  to  her,  has  always  deserved 
and  always  possessed  a  gratitude  and  veneration  without 
bounds  ?  And  for  whom  is  the  tranquillity  and  aifection 
of  the  mother  to  be  sacrificed?  For  me, — a  poor,  un- 
worthy wretch;  deservedly  despised  by  every  strenuous 
and  upright  mind;  a  fickle,  inconsiderate,  frail  mortal, 
whose  perverse  habits  no  magic  can  dissolve. 

No.  My  whole  heart  implores  Jane  to  forget  and 
abandon  me ;  to  adhere  to  her  mother ;  since  no  earthly 
power  and  no  length  of  time  will  change  Mrs.  Fielder's 
feelings  with  regard  to  me  ;  since  I  shall  never  obtain,  as 
I  shall  never  deserve,  her  regard,  and  since  her  mother's 
happiness  is,  and  ought  to  be,  dearer  to  Jane  than  her 
own  personal  and  exclusive  gratification.  God  grant  that 
she  may  be  able  to  perform,  and  cheerfully  perform,  her 
duty! 

But  how  often,  my  friend,  have  I  harped  on  this  string ! 
Yet  I  must  write,  and  I  must  put  down  my  present  thoughts, 
and  these  are  the  sentiments  eternally  present. 


LETTER  XLIV. 

To  Henry  Golden. 

Philadelphia,  December  1. 

I  SAID  I  would  not  write  to  you  again ;  I  would  en- 
courage, I  would  allow  of,  no  intercourse  between  us. 
This  was  my  solemn  resolution  and  my  voluntary  and  no 
less  solemn  promise ;  yet  I  sit  down  to  abjure  this  vow, 
to  break  this  promise. 

What  a  wretch  am  I !  Feeble  and  selfish  beyond  all 
example  among  women !  Why,  why  was  I  born,  or  why 
received  I  breath  in  a  world  and  at  a  period,  with  whose 


JANE    TALBOT.  179 

inhabitants  I  can  have  no  sympathy,  whose  notions  of 
rectitude  and  decency  find  no  answering  chord  in  my 
heart? 

Never  was  a  creature  so  bereft  of  all  dignity,  all  stead- 
fastness. The  slave  of  every  impulse ;  blown  about  by 
the  predominant  gale;  a  scene  of  eternal  fluctuation. 

Yesterday  my  mother  pleaded.  Her  tears  dropped  fast 
into  my  bosom,  and  I  vowed  to  be  all  she  wished;  not 
merely  to  discard  you  from  my  presence,  but  to  banish 
even  your  image  from  my  thoughts.  To  act  agreeably 
to  her  wishes  was  not  sufficient.  I  must  feel  as  she  would 
have  me  feel.  My  actions  must  flow,  not  merely  from  a 
sense  of  duty,  but  from  fervent  inclination. 

I  promised  every  thing.  My  whole  soul  was  in  the 
promise.  I  retired  to  pen  a  last  letter  to  you,  and  to 
say  something  to  your  father.  My  heart  was  firm ;  my 
hand  steady.  My  mother  read  and  approved : — "Dearest 
Jane  !  Now,  indeed,  are  you  my  child.  After  this  I  will 
not  doubt  your  constancy.  Make  me  happy,  by  finding 
happiness  in  this  resolution." 

"  Oh,"  thought  I,  as  I  paced  my  chamber  alone,  "  what 
an  ample  recompense  for  every  self-denial,  for  every 
sacrifice,  are  thy  smiles,  my  maternal  friend !  I  will  live 
smilingly  for  thy  sake,  while  thou  livest.  I  will  live  only 
to  close  thy  eyes,  and  then,  as  every  earthly  good  has 
been  sacrificed  at  thy  bidding,  will  I  take  the  pillow  that 
sustained  thee  when  dead,  and  quickly  breathe  out  upon 
it  my  last  sigh." 

My  thoughts  were  all  lightsome  and  serene.  I  had 
laid  down,  methought,  no  life,  no  joy,  but  my  own.  My 
mother's  peace,  and  your  peace,  for  the  safety  of  either 
of  whom  I  would  cheerfully  die,  had  been  purchased  by 
the  same  act. 

How  did  I  delight  to  view  you  restored  to  your  fa- 
ther's house !  I  was  still  your  friend,  though  invisible.  I 
watched  over  you,  in  quality  of  guardian  angel.  I  ethere- 
alized  myself  from  all  corporeal  passions.  I  even  set 


in  away  unseen  and  unsuspected  by  you,   those  super- 


180  JANE    TALBOT. 

fluities  which  a  blind  and  erring  destiny  had  heaped 
upon  me. 

And  whither  have  these  visions  flown  ?  Am  I  once  more 
sunk  to  a  level  with  my  former  self?  Once  I  thought 
that  religion  was  a  substance  with  me, — not  a  shadow,  to 
flit,  to  mock,  and  to  vanish  when  its  succour  was  most 
needed ;  yet  now  does  my  heart  sink. 

Oh,  comfort  me,  my  friend!  plead  against  yourself; 
against  me.  Be  my  mother's  advocate.  Fly  away  from 
these  arms  that  clasp  you,  and  escape  from  me,  even  if 
your  flight  be  my  death.  Think  not  of  me,  but  of  my 
mother,  and  secure  to  her  the  consolation  of  following 
my  unwedded  corpse  to  the  grave,  by  disclaiming,  by 
hating,  by  forgetting,  the  unfortunate  JANE. 


LETTER  XLV. 

To  Henry  Golden. 

December  4. 

AH,  my  friend !  in  what  school  have  you  acquired  such 
fatal  skill  in  tearing  the  heart  of  an  offender?  Why, 
under  an  appearance  of  self-reproach,  do  you  convey  the 
bitterest  maledictions  ?  Why,  with  looks  of  idolatry  and 
accents  of  compassion,  do  you  aim  the  deadliest  contempts 
and  hurl  the  keenest  censures  against  me? 

"You  acquit  me  of  all  shadow  of  blame."  What!  in 
proving  me  fickle,  inconsistent,  insensible  to  all  your 
merit,  ungrateful  for  your  generosity,  your  love  ?  How 
have  I  rewarded  your  reluctance  to  give  me  pain,  your 
readiness  to  sacrifice  every  personal  good  for  my  sake? 
By  reproaching  you  with  dissimulation.  By  violating  all 
those  vows,  which  no  legal  ceremony  could  make  more 
solemn  or  binding,  and  which  the  highest,  earliest,  and 
most  sacred  voice  of  Heaven  has  ordained  shall  supersede 
all  other  bonds.  By  dooming  you  to  feel  "an  anguish 
next  to  despair."  Thus  have  I  requited  your  unsullied 
truth,  your  unlimited  devotion  to  me ! 

By  what  degrading  standard  do  you  measure  my  en- 
joyments !  "In  my  mother's  tenderness  and  gratitude; 


JANE  TALBOT.  181 

in  the  affluence  and  honour  which  her  regard  will  secure 
to  me,"  am  I  to  find  consolation  for  unfaithfulness  to  my 
engagements ;  for  every  evil  that  may  befall  you.  You, 
whom  every  hallowed  obligation,  every  principle  of  human 
nature,  has  placed  next  to  myself;  whom  it  has  become 
not  a  fickle  inclination,  but  a  sacred  duty,  to  prefer  to 
all  others  ;  whose  happiness  ought  to  be  my  first  and 
chief  care,  and  from  whose  side  I  cannot  sever  myself 
without  a  guilt  inexpiable ! 

Ah,  cruel  friend !  You  ascribe  my  resolution  to  a  dis- 
interested regard  to  your  good.  You  wish  me  to  find 
happiness  in  that  persuasion.  Yet  you  leave  me  not  that 
phantom  for  a  comforter.  You  convict  me,  in  every  line 
of  your  letter,  of  selfishness  and  folly.  The  only  con- 
sideration that  has  irresistible  weight  with  me — the  resto- 
ration of  your  father's  kindness — you  prove  to  be  a  mere 
delusion,  and  destroy  it  without  mercy ! 

Can  you  forgive  me,  Henry  ?  Best  of  men !  Will  you  be 
soothed  by  my  penitence  for  one  more  rash  and  inconsi- 
derate act  ?  But,  alas !  my  penitence  is  rapid  and  sincere ; 
but  where  is  the  merit  of  compunction  that  affords  no 
security  against  the  repetition  of  the  fault  ?  And  where 
is  my  safety? 

Fly  to  me.  Save  me  from  my  mother's  irresistible  ex- 
postulations. I  cannot — cannot  withstand  her  tears.  Let 
me  find  in  your  arms  a  refuge  from  them.  Let  me  no  more 
trust  a  resolution  which  is  sure  to  fail.  By  making  the  tie 
between  us  such  as  even  she  will  allow  to  be  irrevocable, 
by  depriving  me  of  the  power  of  compliance,  only  can  I 
be  safe. 

Fly  to  me,  therefore.  Be  at  the  front-door  at  ten  this 
night.  My  Molly  will  be  my  only  companion.  Be  the 
necessary  measures  previously  taken,  that  no  delay  or  dis^ 
appointment  may  occur.  One  half-hour  and  the  solemn 
rite  may  be  performed.  My  absence  will  not  be  missed, 
as  I  return  immediately.  Then  will  there  be  an  end  to 
fluctuation,  for  repentance  cannot  undo.  Already  in  the 
sight  of  Heaven,  at  the  tribunal  of  my  own  conscience, 
am  I  thy  wife;  but  somewhat  more  is  requisite  to  make  the 
compact  universally  acknowledged.  This  is  now  my  re- 
solve. I  shall  keep  it  secret  from  the  rest  of  the  world. 
16 


182 


JANE    TALBOT. 


Nothing  but  the  compulsion  of  persuasion  can  make  me 
waver,  and  concealment  will  save  me  from  that,  and  to- 
morroio  remonstrance  and  entreaty  will  avail  nothing. 

My  girl  has  told  me  of  her  interview  with  you,  and 
where  you  are  to  be  found.  The  dawn  is  not  far  distant, 
and  at  sunrise  she  carries  you  this.  I  shall  expect  an  im- 
mediate and  (need  I  add,  when  I  recollect  the  invariable 
counsel  you  have  given  me  ?)  a  compliant  answer. 

And  shall  I — Let  me,  while  the  sun  lingers,  still  pour 
out  my  soul  on  this  paper ;  let  me  indulge  a  pleasinff, 
dreadful  thought — Shall  I,  ere  circling  time  bring  back 
this  hour,  become  thy 

And  shall  my  heart,  after  its  dreadful  languors,  its  ex- 
cruciating agonies,  know  once  more  a  rapturous  emotion? 
So  lately  sunk  into  despondency ;  so  lately  pondering  on 
obstacles  that  rose  before  me  like  Alps  and  menaced 
eternal  opposition  to  my  darling  projects;  so  lately  the 
prey  of  the  deepest  anguish :  what  spell  diffuses  through 
my  frame  this  ravishing  tranquillity? 

Tranquillity,  said  I  ?  That  my  throbbing  heart  gain- 
says. You  cannot  see  me  just  now,  but  the  palpitating 
heart  infects  my  fingers,  and  the  unsteady  pen  will  speak 
to  you  eloquently. 

I  wonder  how  far  sympathy  possesses  you.  No  doubt 
— let  me  see:  ten  minutes  after  four, — no  doubt  you  are 
sound  asleep.  Care  has  fled  away  to  some  other  head. 
Those  invisible  communicants,  those  aerial  heralds  whose 
existence,  benignity,  and  seasonable  succour  are  parts, 
thou  knowest,  of  my  creed,  are  busy  in  the  weaving  of 
some  beatific  dream.  At  their  bidding  the  world  of  thy 
fancy  is  circumscribed  by  four  white  walls,  a  Turkey- 
carpeted  floor,  and  a  stuccoed  ceiling.  Didst  ever  see 
such  before?  Was't  ever,  in  thy  wakeful  season,  in  the 
same  apartment  ?  Never !  And,  what  is  more,  and  which 
I  desire  thee  to  note  well,  thou  art  not  hereafter  to  enter 
it  except  in  dreams. 

A  poor  taper  burns  upon  the  toilet, — just  bright  enough 
to  give  the  cognizance  of  something  in  woman's  shape  and 
in  negligent  attire  scribbling  near  it.  Thou  needst  not 
tap  her  on  the  shoulder ;  she  need  not  look  up  and  smile 
a  welcome  to  the  friendly  vision.  She  knows  that  thou 


JANE   TALBOT.  183 

art  here;  for  is  not  thy  hand  already  in  hers,  and  is  not 
thy  cheek  already  wet  with  her  tears  ?  for  thy  poor  girl's 
eyes  are  as  sure  to  overflow  with  joy  as  with  sorrow. 

And  will  it  be  always  thus,  my  dear  friend  ?  Will  thy 
love  screen  me  forever  from  remorse  ?  will  my  mother's 
reproaches  never  intrude  amidst  the  raptures  of  fondness 
and  poison  my  tranquillity  ? 

What  will  she  say  when  she  discovers  the  truth  ?  My 
conscience  will  not  allow  me  to  dissemble.  It  will  not 
disavow  the  name  or  withhold  the  duties  of  a  wife.  Too 
well  do  I  conceive  what  she  will  say, — hoiv  she  will 
act. 

I  need  not  apprehend  expulsion  from  her  house.  Exile 
will  be  a  voluntary  act : — "  You  shall  eat,  drink,  lodge, 
and  dress  as  well  as  ever.  I  will  not  sever  husband  from 
wife,  and  I  find  no  pleasure  in  seeing  those  whom  I  most 
hate  perishing  with  want.  I  threatened  to  abandon  you, 
merely  because  I  would  employ  every  means  of  prevent- 
ing your  destruction ;  but  my  revenge  is  not  so  sordid  as 
to  multiply  unnecessary  evils  on  your  head.  I  shall  take 
from  you  nothing  but  my  esteem, — my  affection, — my 
society.  I  shall  never  see  you  but  with  agony;  I  shall 
never  think  of  you  without  pain.  I  part  with  you  for- 
ever, and  prepare  myself  for  that  grave  which  your  folly 
and  ingratitude  have  dug  for  me. 

"  You  have  said,  Jane,  that,  having  lost  my  favour,  you 
will  never  live  upon  my  bounty.  That  will  be  an  act  of 
needless  and  perverse  cruelty  in  you.  It  will  be  wantonly 
adding  to  that  weight  with  which  you  have  already  sunk 
me  to  the  grave.  Besides,  I  will  not  leave  you  an  option. 
While  I  live,  my  watchful  care  shall  screen  you  from 
penury  in  spite  of  yourself.  When  I  die,  my  testament 
shall  make  you  my  sole  successor.  What  I  have  shall  be 
yours, — at  least,  while  you  live. 

"I  have  deeply  regretted  the  folly  of  threatening  you 
with  loss  of  property.  I  should  have  known  you  better 
than  to  think  that  a  romantic  head  like  yours  would  find 
any  thing  formidable  in  such  deprivations.  If  other  con- 
siderations were  feeble,  this  would  be  chimerical. 

"Fare  you  well,  Jane,  and,  when  you  become  a  mother, 
may  your  tenderness  never  be  requited  by  the  folly  and 


184  JAXE    TALBOT. 

ingratitude  which  it  has  been  my  lot  to  meet  with  in  the 
child  of  my  affections  !" 

Something  like  this  has  my  mother  already  said  to  me, 
in  the  course  of  an  affecting  conversation,  in  which  I  ven- 
tured to  plead  for  you.  And  have  I,  then,  resolved  to 
tram  pie"  on  such  goodness  ? 

Whither,  my  friend,  shall  I  fly  from  a  scene  like  this  ? 
Into  thy  arms?  And  shall  I  find  comfort  there?  can  I 
endure  life,  with  the  burden  of  remorse  which  generosity 
like  this  will  lay  upon  me  ? 

But  I  tell  you,  Henry,  I  am  resolved.  I  have  nothing 
but  evil  to  choose.  There  is  but  one  calamity  greater 
than  my  mother's  anger.  I  cannot  mangle  my  own  vitals. 
I  cannot  put  an  impious  and  violent  end  to  my  own  life. 
Will  it  be  mercy  to  make  lier  witness  my  death  ?  and  can 
I  live  without  you  ?  If  I  must  be  an  ingrate,  be  her  and 
not  you  the  victim.  If  I  must  requite  benevolence  with 
malice  and  tenderness  with  hatred,  be  it  Tier  benevolence 
and  tenderness,  and  not  yours,  that  are  thus  requited. 

Once  more,  then,  note  well.  The  hour  of  ten;  the 
station  near  the  door ;  a  duly-qualified  officiator  previously 
engaged ;  and  my  destiny  in  this  life  fixed  beyond  the 
power  of  recall.  The  bearer  of  this  will  bring  back  your 
answer.  Farewell.  Remember.  J.  TALBOT. 


LETTER  XL VI. 

To  James  Montford. 

December  9. 

ONCE  more,  after  a  night  of  painful  musing  or  troubled 
repose,  I  am  at  the  pen.  I  am  plunged  into  greater  diffi- 
culties and  embarrassments  than  ever. 

It  was  scarcely  daylight,  when  a  slumber  into  which  I 
had  just  fallen  was  interrupted  by  a  servant  of  the  inn. 
A  girl  was  below,  who  wanted  to  see  me.  The  descrip- 
tion quickly  proved  it  to  be  Molly.  I  rose  and  directed 
her  to  be  admitted. 

She  brought  two  letters  from  her  mistress,  and  Avas  told 
to  wait  for  an  answer.  Jane  traversed  her  room,  half 


JANE    TALBOT.  185 

distracted  and  sleepless  during  most  of  the  night.  To- 
Avards  morning  she  sat  down  to  her  desk,  and  finished  a 
letter,  which,  together  with  one  written  a  couple  of  days 
before,  was  despatched  to  me. 

My  heart  throbbed — I  was  going  to  say  with  transport ; 
but  I  am  at  a  loss  to  say  whether  anguish  or  delight  was 
uppermost  on  reading  these  letters.  She  recalls  every 
promise  of  eternal  separation ;  she  consents  to  immediate 
marriage  as  the  only  wise  expedient ;  proposes  ten  o'clock 
this  night  to  join  our  hands ;  will  conceal  her  purpose 
from  her  mother,  and  resigns  to  me  the  providing  of 
suitable  means. 

I  was  overwhelmed  with  surprise  wnd — shall  I  not  say  ? 
— delight  at  this  unexpected  concession.  An  immediate 
and  consenting  answer  was  required.  I  hurried  to  give 
this  answer,  but  my  tumultuous  feelings  would  not  let 
me  write  coherently.  I  was  obliged  to  lay  down  the  pen, 
and  take  a  turn  across  the  room  to  calm  my  tremors. 
This  gave  me  time  to  reflect. 

"  What,"  thought  I,  "  am  I  going  to  do?  To  take  ad- 
vantage of  a  momentary  impulse  in.  my  favour.  To  violate 
my  promises  to  Mrs.  Fielder :  my  letter  to  her  may  be  con- 
strued into  promises  not  to  seek  another  interview  with 
Jane,  and  to  leave  the  country  forever.  And  shall  I  be- 
tray this  impetuous  woman  into  an  irrevocable  act,  which 
her  whole  future  life  may  be  unavailingly  consumed  in 
repenting  ?  Some  delay,  some  deliberation,  cannot  be 
injurious. 

"And  yet  this  has  always  been  my  advice.  Shall  I 
reject  the  hand  that  is  now  offered  me?  How  will 
she  regard  these  new-born  scruples,  this  drawing  back 
when  the  door  spontaneously  opens  and  solicits  my  en- 
trance ? 

"Is  it  in  my  power  to  make  Jane  Talbot  mine?  my 
wife  ?  And  shall  I  hesitate  ?  Ah !  would  to  Heaven  it  were 
a  destiny  as  fortunate  for  her  as  for  me ! — that  no  tears, 
no  repinings,  no  compunctions,  would  follow !  Should  I 
not  curse  the  hour  of  our  union  when  I  heard  her  sighs  ? 
and,  instead  of  affording  consolation  under  the  distress 
produced  by  her  mother's  displeasure,  should  I  not  need 
that  consolation  as  much  as  she?" 
16* 


186  .  JANE    TALBOT. 

These  reflections  had  no  other  effect  than  to  make  me 
irresolute.  I  could  not  return  my  assent  to  her  scheme. 
I  could  not  reject  so  bewitching  an  offer.  This  offer  was 
the  child  of  a  passionate,  a  desperate  moment.  Whither, 
indeed,  should  she  fly  for  refuge  from  a  scene  like  that 
which  she  describes? 

Molly  urged  me  to  come  to  some  determination,  as  her 
mistress  would  impatiently  wait  her  return.  Finding  it 
indispensable  to  say  something,  I  at  length  wrote : — 

"  I  have  detected  the  author  of  the  forgery  which  has 
given  us  so  much  disquiet.  I  propose  to  visit  your  mo- 
ther this  morning,  when  I  shall  claim  admission  to  you. 
In  that  interview  may  our  future  destiny  be  discussed  and 
settled.  Meanwhile,  still  regard  me  as  ever  ready  to  pur- 
chase your  true  happiness  by  every  sacrifice." 

With  this  billet  Molly  hastened  away.  What  cold,  re- 
pulsive terms  were  these !  My  conscience  smote  me  as 
she  shut  the  door.  But  what  could  I  do  ? 

I  had  but  half  determined  to  seek  an  interview  with 
Mrs.  Fielder.  What  purpose  would  it  answer  while  the 
truth  respecting  the  counterfeit  letter  still  remained  im- 
perfectly discovered  ?  And  why  should  1  seek  an  inter- 
view with  Jane  ?  Would  her  mother  permit  it  ?  and  should 
I  employ  my  influence  to  win  her  from  her  mother's  side 
or  rivet  her  more  closely  to  it  ? 

What,  my  friend,  shall  I  do  ?  You  are  too  far  off  to 
answer  me,  and  you  leave  me  to  my  own  destiny.  You 
hear  not,  and  will  not  seasonably  hear  what  I  say.  To- 
day will  surely  settle  all  difficulties,  one  way  or  another. 
This  night,  if  I  will,  I  may  be  the  husband  of  this  angel, 
or  I  may  raise  obstacles  insuperable  between  us.  Our 
interests  and  persons  may  be  united  forever,  or  we  may 
start  out  into  separate  paths  and  never  meet  again. 

Another  messenger !  with  a  letter  for  me !  Miss  Jes- 
sup's  servant  it  is,  perhaps.  But  let  me  read  it. 


JANE    TALBOT.  187 

LETTER    XL VII. 

To  Henry  Golden. 

December  8. 

SIR  :— 

Enclosed  is  a  letter,  which  you  may,  if  you  think 
proper,  deliver  to  Mrs.  Fielder.  I  am  very  ill.  Don't 
attempt  to  see  me  again.  I  cannot  be  seen.  Let  the  en- 
closed satisfy  you.  It  is  enough.  Never  should  I  have 
said  so  much,  if  I  thought  I  were  long  for  this  world. 

Let  me  not  have  a  useless  enemy  in  you.  I  hope  the 
fatal  effects  of  my  rashness  have  not  gone  further  than 
Mrs.  Talbot's  family.  Let  the  mischief  be  repaired  as 
far  as  it  can  be  ;  but  do  not  injure  me  unnecessarily.  I 
hope  I  am  understood. 

Let  me  know  what  use  you  have  made  of  the  letter  you 
showed  me,  and,  I  beseech  you,  return  it  to  me  by  the 
bearer.  M.  JESSUP. 


LETTER  XLVIII. 

To  Mrs.  Fielder. 

December  8. 

MADAM  : — 

This  comes  from  a  very  unfortunate  and  culpable  hand, 
— a  hand  that  hardly  knows  how  to  sign  its  own  condem- 
nation, and  which  sickness,  no  less  than  irresolution,  al- 
most deprives  of  the  power  to  hold  the  pen. 

Yet  I  call  Heaven  to  witness  that  I  expected  not  the 
evil  from  my  infatuation  which,  it  seems,  has  followed  it. 
I  meant  to  influence  none  but  Mr.  Talbot's  belief.  I  had 
the  misfortune  to  see  and  to  love  him  long  before  his  en- 
gagement with  your  daughter.  I  overstepped  the  limits 
of  my  sex,  and  met  with  no  return  to  my  generous  offers 
and  my  weak  entreaties  but  sternness  and  contempt. 

You,  madam,  are  perhaps  raised  above  the  weakness 
of  a  heart  like  mine.  You  will  not  comprehend  how  an 
unrequited  passion  can  ever  give  place  to  rage  and  re- 


188  JANE    TALBOT. 

venge,  and  how  the  merits  of  the  object  preferred  to  me 
should  only  embitter  that  revenge. 

Jane  Talbot  never  loved  the  man  whom  I  would  have 
made  happy.  Her  ingenuous  temper  easily  disclosed  her 
indifference,  and  she  married  not  to  please  herself,  but  to 
please  others.  Her  husband's  infatuation  in  marrying 
on  such  terms  could  be  exceeded  by  nothing  but  his  folly 
in  refusing  one  who  would  have  lived  for  no  other  end 
than  to  please  him. 

I  observed  the  progress  of  the  intimacy  between  Mr. 
Golden  and  her,  in  Talbot's  absence ;  and  can  you  not 
conceive,  madam,  that  my  heart  was  disposed  to  exult  in 
every  event  that  verified  my  own  predictions  and  would 
convince  Talbot  of  the  folly  of  his  choice?  Hence  I  was 
a  jealous  observer.  The  worst  construction  Avas  put  upon 
your  daughter's  conduct.  That  open,  impetuous  temper 
of  hers,  confident  of  innocence,  and  fearless  of  ungene- 
rous or  malignant  constructions,  easily  put  her  into  my 
power.  Unrequited  love  made  me  her  enemy  as  well  as 
that  of  her  husband,  and  I  even  saw,  in  her  unguarded 
deportment,  and  in  the  reputed  licentiousness  of  Mr. 
Colden's  principles,  some  reason,  some  probability,  in  my 
surmises. 

Several  anonymous  letters  were  written  to  you.  I 
thank  Heaven  that  I  was  seldom  guilty  of  direct  false- 
hoods in  these  letters.  I  told  you  little  more  than  what 
a  jealous  eye  and  a  prying  disposition  easily  discovered ; 
and  I  never  saw  any  thing  in  their  intercourse  that 
argued  more  than  a  temper  thoughtless  and  indiscreet. 
To  distinguish  minutely  between  truths  and  exaggera- 
tions, in  the  letters  which  I  sent  you,  would  be  a  painful 
and,  I  trust,  a  needless  task,  since  I  now  solemnly  declare 
that,  on  an  impartial  review  of  all  that  I  ever  witnessed 
in  the  conduct  of  your  daughter,  I  remember  nothing  that 
can  justify  the  imputation  of  guilt.  I  believe  her  con- 
duct to  Golden  was  not  always  limited  by  a  due  regard 
to  appearances;  that  she  trusted  her  fame  too  much  to 
her  consciousness  of  innocence,  and  set  too  lightly  by 
the  malignity  of  those  who  would  be  glad  to  find  her  in 
fault,  and  the  ignorance  of  others,  who  naturally  judged 
of  her  by  themselves.  And  this,  I  now  solemnly  take 


JANE   TALBOT.  189 

Heaven  to  witness,  is  the  only  charge  that  can  truly  be 
brought  against  her. 

There  is  still  another  confession  to  make.  If  suffering 
and  penitence  can  atone  for  any  offence,  surely  mine  has 
been  atoned  for !  But  it  still  remains  that  I  should,  as 
far  as  my  power  goes,  repair  the  mischief. 

It  is  no  adequate  apology,  I  well  know,  that  the  con- 
sequences of  my  crime  were  more  extensive  and  durable 
than  I  expected ;  but  is  it  not  justice  to  myself  to  say  that 
this  confession  would  have  been  made  earlier  if  I  had 
earlier  known  the  extent  of  the  evil  ?  I  never  suspected 
but  that  the  belief  of  his  wife's  infidelity  was  buried  with 
Talbot. 

Alas !  wicked  and  malignant  as  I  was,  I  meant  not  to 
persuade  the  mother  of  her  child's  profligacy.  Why 
should  I  have  aimed  at  this?  I  had  no  reason  to  dis- 
esteern  or  hate  you.  I  was  always  impressed  with  reve- 
rence for  your  character.  In  the  letters  sent  directly  to 
you,  I  aimed  at  nothing  but  to  procure  your  interference, 
and  make  maternal  authority  declare  itself  against  that 
intercourse  which  was  essential  to  your  daughter's  happi- 
ness. It  was  not  you,  but  her,  that  I  wished  to  vex  and 
distress. 

I  called  at  Mrs.  Talbot's  at  a  time  when  visitants  are 
least  expected.  Nobody  saw  me  enter.  Her  parlour 
was  deserted ;  her  writing-desk  was  open ;  an  unfinished 
letter  caught  my  eye.  A  sentiment  half  inquisitive  and 
half  mischievous  made  me  snatch  it  up  and  withdraw  as 
abruptly  as  I  entered. 

On  reading  this  billet,  it  was  easy  to  guess  for  whom 
it  was  designed.  It  was  frank  and  affectionate;  con- 
sistent with  her  conjugal  duty,  but  not  such  as  a  very 
circumspect  and  wary  temper  would  have  allowed  itself 
to  write. 

How  shall  I  describe  the  suggestions  that  led  me  to 
make  a  most  nefarious  use  of  this  paper  ?  Circumstances 
most  unhappily  concurred  to  make  my  artifice  easy  and 
plausible.  I  discovered  that  Golden  had  spent  most  of 
the  preceding  night  with  your  daughter.  It  is  true  a  most 
heavy  storm  had  raged  during  the  evening,  and  the  mo- 
ment it  remitted  (which  was  not  till  three  o'clock)  he  was 


190  JANE    TALBOT. 

seen  to  come  out.  His  detention,  therefore,  candour 
would  ascribe  to  the  storm ;  but  this  letter,  with  such  a 
conclusion  as  was  too  easily  made,  might  fix  a  construc- 
tion on  it  that  no  time  could  remove  and  innocence  could 
never  confute. 

I  had  not  resolved  in  what  way  I  should  employ  this 
letter,  as  I  had  eked  it  out,  before  Mr.  Talbot's  return. 
When  that  event  took  place,  my  old  infatuation  revived. 
I  again  sought  his  company,  and  the  indifference,  and 
even  contempt,  with  which  I  was  treated,  filled  me  anew 
with  resentment.  To  persuade  him  of  his  wife's  guilt 
was,  I  thought,  an  effectual  way  of  destroying  whatever 
remained  of  matrimonial  happiness ;  and  the  means  were 
fully  in  my  power. 

Here  I  was  again  favoured  by  accident.  Fortune 
seemed  determined  to  accomplish  my  ruin.  My  own 
ingenuity  in  vain  attempted  to  fall  on  a  safe  mode  of  put- 
ting this  letter  in  Talbot's  way,  and  this  had  never  been 
done  if  chance  had  not  surprisingly  befriended  my  purpose. 

One  evening  I  dropped  familiarly  in  upon  your  daugh- 
ter. Nobody  was  there  but  Mr.  Talbot  and  she.  She 
was  writing  at  her  desk  as  usual,  for  she  seemed  never 
at  ease  but  with  a  pen  in  her  fingers ;  and  Mr.  Talbot 
seemed  thoughtful  and  uneasy.  At  my  entrance  the 
desk  was  hastily  closed  and  locked.  But  first  she  took 
out  some  papers,  and,  mentioning  her  design  of  going 
up-stairs  to  put  them  away,  she  tripped  to  the  door. 
Looking  back,  however,  she  perceived  she  had  dropped 
one.  This  she  took  up,  in  some  hurry,  and  withdrew. 

Instead  of  conversing  with  me,  Talbot  walked  about 
the  room  in  a  peevish  and  gloomy  humour.  A  thought 
just  then  rushed  into  my  mind.  While  Talbot  had  his 
back  towards  me,  and  was  at  a  distance,  I  dropped  the 
counterfeit,  at  the  spot  where  Jane  had  just  before 
dropped  her  paper,  and  with  little  ceremony  took  my 
leave.  Jane  had  excused  her  absence  to  me,  and  pro- 
mised to  return  within  five  minutes.  It  was  not  possible, 
I  thought,  that  Talbot's  eye,  as  he  walked  backward  and 
forward  during  that  interval,  could  miss  the  paper,  which 
would  not  fail  to  appear  as  if  dropped  by  his  wife. 

My  timidity  and  conscious  guilt  hindered  me  from 


JANE    TALBOT.  191 

attempting  to  discover,  by  any  direct  means,  the  effects 
of  my  artifice.  I  was  mortified  extremely  in  finding  no 
remarkable  difference  in  their  deportment  to  each  other. 
Sometimes  I  feared  I  had  betrayed  myself;  but  no  altera- 
tion ever  afterwards  appeared  in  their  behaviour  to  me. 

I  know  how  little  I  deserve  to  be  forgiven.  Nothing 
can  palliate  the  baseness  of  this  action.  I  acknow- 
ledge it  with  the  deepest  remorse,  and  nothing,  especially 
since  the  death  of  Mr.  Talbot,  has  lessened  my  grief,  but 
the  hope  that  some  unknown  cause  prevented  the  full 
effect  of  this  forgery  on  his  peace,  and  that  the  secret, 
carefully  locked  up  in  his  own  breast,  expired  with  him. 
All  my  enmities  and  restless  jealousy  found  their  repose 
in  the  same  grave. 

You  have  come  to  the  knowledge  of  this  letter,  and  I 
now  find  that  the  fraud  was  attended  with  even  more 
success  than  I  wished  it  to  have. 

Let  me  now,  though  late,  put  an  end  to  the  illusion, 
and  again  assure  you,  madam,  that  the  concluding  para- 
graphs were  written  ~by  me,  and  that  those  parts  of  it 
which  truly  belong  to  your  daughter  are  perfectly  innocent. 

If  it  were  possible  for  you  to  forgive  my  misconduct, 
and  to  suffer  this  confession  to  go  no  further  than  the 
evil  has  gone,  you  will  confer  as  great  a  comfort  as  can 
now  be  conferred  on  the  unhappy  M.  JESSUP. 


LETTER  XLIX. 

To  James  Montford. 

Philadelphia,  December  9. 

I  WILL  imagine,  my  friend,  that  you  have  read  the 
letter*  which  I  have  hastily  transcribed.  I  will  not  stop 
to  tell  you  my  reflections  upon  it,  but  shall  hasten  with 
this  letter  to  Mrs. Fielder.  I  might  send  it;  but  I  have 
grown  desperate. 

A  final  effort  must  be  made  for  my  own  happiness  and 
that  of  Jane.  From  their  own  lips  will  I  know  my  des- 

*  The  preceding  one. 


192  JANE    TALBOT. 

tiny.  I  have  conversed  too  long  at  a  distance  with  this 
austere  lady.  I  will  mark  with  my  own  eyes  the  effect 
of  this  discovery.  Perhaps  the  moment  may  prove  a 
yielding  one.  Finding  me  innocent  in  one  respect,  in 
which  her  persuasion  of  my  guilt  was  most  strong,  may 
she  not  remit  or  soften  her  sentence  on  inferior  faults? 
And  what  may  be  the  influence  of  Jane's  deportment, 
when  she  touches  my  hand  in  a  last  adieu  ? 

I  have  complied  with  Miss  Jessup's  wish  in  one  par- 
ticular. I  have  sent  her  the  letter  which  I  got  from 
Hannah,  unopened ;  unread ;  accompanied  with  a  few 
words,  to  this  effect : — 

"If  you  ever  injured  Mr.  Talbot,  your  motives  for 
doing  so  entitle  you  to  nothing  but  compassion,  while 
your  present  conduct  lays  claim,  not  only  to  forgiveness, 
but  to  gratitude.  The  letter  you  intrust  to  me  shall  be 
applied  to  no  purpose  but  that  which  you  proposed  by 
writing  it.  Enclosed  is  the  paper  you  request,  the  seal 
unbroken  and  its  contents  unread.  In  this,  as  in  all 
cases,  I  have  no  stronger  wish  than  to  act  as 

"YouR  TRUE  FRIEND." 

And  now,  my  friend,  lay  I  down  the  pen  for  a  few 
hours, — hours  the  most  important,  perhaps,  in  my  event- 
ful life.  Surely  this  interview  with  Mrs.  Fielder  will 
decide  my  destiny.  After  it,  I  shall  have  nothing  to  hope. 

I  prepare  for  it  with  awe  and  trembling.  The  more 
nearly  it  approaches,  the  more  my  heart  falters.  I  sum- 
mon up  in  vain  a  tranquil  and  steadfast  spirit;  but  per- 
haps a  walk  in  the  clear  air  will  be  more  conducive  to 
this  end  than  a  day's  ruminations  in  my  chamber. 

I  will  take  a  walk. 

****** 

And  am  I  then — but  I  will  not  anticipate.  Let  me 
lead  you  to  the  present  state  of  things  without  confusion. 

"With  what  different  emotions  did  I  use  to  approach 
this  house!  "It  still  contains,"  thought  I,  as  my  waver- 
ing steps  brought  me  in  sight  of  it,  "all  that  I  love;  but 
I  enter  not  unceremoniously  now.  I  find  her  not  on  the 
accustomed  sofa,  eager  to  welcome  my  coining  with 
smiling  affability  and  arms  outstretched.  No  longer  is 


JANE   TALBOT.  193 

it  home  to  me,  nor  she  assiduous  to  please,  familiarly 
tender  and  anxiously  fond,  already  assuming  the  con- 
jugal privilege  of  studying  my  domestic  ease." 

I  knocked,  somewhat  timorously,  at  the  door, — a  cere- 
mony which  I  had  long  been  in  the  habit  of  omitting : 
but  times  are  changed.  I  was  afraid  the  melancholy 
which  was  fast  overshadowing  me  would  still  more  unfit 
me  for  what  was  coming;  but,  instead  of  dispelling  it, 
this  very  apprehension  deepened  my  gloom. 

Molly  came  to  the  door.  She  silently  led  me  into  a 
parlour.  The  poor  girl  was  in  tears.  My  questions  as 
to  the  cause  of  her  distress  drew  from  her  a  very  indis- 
tinct and  sobbing  confession  that  Mrs.  Fielder  had  been 
made  uneasy  by  Molly's  going  out  so  early  in  the  morn- 
ing ;  had  taken  her  daughter  to  task ;  and,  by  employing 
entreaties  and  remonstrances  in  turn,  had  drawn  from 
her  the  contents  of  her  letter  to  me  and  of  my  answer. 

A  strange,  aifecting  scene  had  followed :  indignation 
and  grief  on  the  mother's  part;  obstinacy,  irresolution, 
sorrowful,  reluctant  penitence  and  acquiescence  on  the 
side  of  the  daughter ;  a  determination,  tacitly  concurred 
in  by  Jane,  of  leaving  the  city  immediately.     Orders 
were  already  issued  for  that  purpose. 
;Is  Mrs.  Fielder  at  home?" 
;Yes." 

;Tell  her  a  gentleman  would  see  her." 
'  She  will  ask,  perhaps — Shall  I  tell  her  who  ?" 
'No — Yes.     Tell  her  I  wish  to  see  her." 

The  poor  girl  looked  very  mournfully: — "She  has 
seen  your  answer  which  talks  of  your  intention  to  visit 
her.  She  vows  she  will  not  see  you  if  you  come." 

"Go,  then,  to  Jane,  and  tell  her  I  would  see  her  for 
five  minutes.  Tell  her  openly;  before  her  mother." 

This  message,  as  I  expected,  brought  down  Mrs.  Fielder 
alone.  I  never  saw  this  lady  before.  There  was  a 
struggle  in  her  countenance  between  anger  and  patience ; 
an  awful  and  severe  solemnity ;  a  slight  and  tacit  notice 
of  me  as  she  entered.  We  both  took  chairs  without 
speaking.  After  a  moment's  pause, — 

"Mr.  Golden,  I  presume." 

"Yes,  madam." 

17 


194  JANE   TALBOT. 

"You  wish  to  see  my  daughter?" 

"I  was  anxious,  madam,  to  see  you.  My  business 
here  chiefly  lies  with  you, — not  her." 

"  With  me,  sir  ?  And  pray,  what  have  you  to  propose 
to  me?" 

"I  have  nothing  to  solicit,  madam,  but  your  patient 
attention."  (I  saw  the  rising  vehemence  could  scarcely 
be  restrained.)  "I  dare  not  hope  for  your  favourable 
ear :  all  I  ask  is  an  audience  from  you  of  a  few  minutes." 

"This  preface,  sir,"  (her  motions  less  and  less  con- 
trollable,) "is  needless.  I  have  very  few  minutes  to  spare 
at  present.  This  roof  is  hateful  to  me  while  you  are 
under  it.  Say  what  you  will,  sir,  and  briefly  as  possible." 

"No,  madam ;  thus  received,  I  have  not  fortitude  enough 
to  say  what  I  came  to  say.  I  merely  entreat  you  to 
peruse  this  letter." 

"'Tis  well,  sir,"  (taking  it,  with  some  reluctance,  and, 
after  eyeing  the  direction,  putting  it  aside.)  "And  this 
is  all  your  business?" 

"Let  me  entreat  you,  madam,  to  read  it  in  my  pre- 
sence. Its  contents  nearly  concern  your  happiness,  and 
will  not  leave  mine  unaffected." 

She  did  not  seem,  at  first,  disposed  to  compliance,  but 
at  length  opened  and  read.  What  noble  features  has 
this  lady!  I  watched  them,  as  she  read,  with  great 
solicitude,  but  discovered  in  them  nothing  that  could 
cherish  my  hope.  All  was  stern  and  inflexible.  No 
wonder  at  the  ascendency  this  spirit  possesses  over  the 
tender  and  flexible  Jane ! 

She  read  with  visible  eagerness.  The  vai-ying  emotion 
played  with  augmented  rapidity  over  her  face.  Its  ex- 
pression became  less  severe,  and  some  degree  of  softness, 
I  thought,  mixed  itself  with  those  glances  which  re- 
flection sometimes  diverted  from  the  letter.  These 
tokens  somewhat  revived  my  languishing  courage. 

After  having  gone  through  it,  she  returned;  read 
again  and  pondered  over  particular  passages.  At  length, 
after  some  pause,  she  spoke;  but  her  indignant  eye 
scarcely  condescended  to  point  the  address  to  me: — 

"As  a  mother  and  a  woman  I  cannot  but  rejoice  at 
this  discovery.  To  find  my  daughter  Jess  guilty  than 


JANE    TALBOT.  195 

appearances  led  me  to  believe,  cannot  but  console  me 
under  the  conviction  of  her  numerous  errors.  Would  to 
Heaven  she  would  stop  here  in  her  career  of  folly  and 
imprudence ! 

"I  cannot  but  regard  you,  sir,  as  the  author  of  much 
misery.  Still,  it  is  in  your  power  to  act  as  this  deluded 
woman,  Miss  Jessup,  has  acted.  You  may  desist  from 
any  future  persecution.  Your  letter  to  me  gave  me  no 
reason  to  expect  the  honour  of  this  visit,  and  contained 
something  like  a  promise  to  shun  any  further  intercourse 
with  Mrs.  Talbot." 

"I  hope,  madam,  the  contents  of  this  letter  will  justify 
me  in  bringing  it  to  you?" 

"Perhaps  it  has;  but  that  commission  is  performed. 
That,  I  hope,  is  all  you  proposed  by  coming  hither ;  and 
you  will  pardon  me  if  I  plead  an  engagement  for  not  de- 
taining you  longer  in  this  house." 

I  had  no  apology  for  prolonging  my  stay,  yet  I  was 
irresolute.  She  seemed  impatient  at  my  lingering; 
again  urged  her  engagements.  I  rose;  took  my  hat; 
moved  a  few  steps  towards  the  door ;  hesitated. 

At  length  I  stammered  out,  "  Since  it  is  the  last — the 
last  interview — if  I  were  allowed — but  one  moment." 

"No,  no,  no!  what  but  needless  torment  to  herself 
and  to  you  can  follow?  What  do  you  expect  from  an 
interview?" 

"I  would  see,  for  a  moment,  the  face  of  one  whom, 
whatever  be  my  faults,  and  whatever  be  hers,  I  love." 

"  Yes ;  you  would  profit,  no  doubt,  by  your  power  over 
this  infatuated  girl.  I  know  what  a  rash  proposal  she 
has  made  you,  and  you  seek  her  presence  to  insure  her 
adherence  to  it." 

Her  vehemence  tended  more  to  bereave  me  of  courage 
than  of  temper,  but  I  could  not  forbear  (mildly,  however) 
reminding  her  that  if  I  had  sought  to  take  advantage  of 
her  daughter's  offer,  the  easiest  and  most  obvious  method 
was  different  from  that  which  I  had  taken. 

"True,"  said  she,  her  eyes  flashing  fire;  "a  secret 
marriage  would  have  given  you  the  destitute  and  portion- 
less girl ;  but  your  views  are  far  more  solid  and  substantial. 
You  know  your  power  over  her,  and  aim  at  extorting 


196  JANE    TALBOT. 

from  compassion  for  my  child  what — But  why  do  I  ex- 
change a  word  with  you?  Mrs.  Talbot  knows  not  that 
you  are  here.  She  has  just  given  me  the  strongest  proof 
of  compunction  for  every  past  folly,  and  especially  the 
last.  She  has  bound  herself  to  go  along  with  me.  If 
your  professions  of  regard  for  her  be  sincere,  you  will 
not  increase  her  difficulties.  I  command  you,  I  implore 
you,  to  leave  the  house." 

I  should  not  have  resisted  these  entreaties  on  my  own 
account.  Yet  to  desert  her — to  be  thought  by  her  to 
have  coldly  and  inhumanly  rejected  her  offers ! 

"In  your  presence,  madam — I  ask  not  privacy — let 
her  own  lips  confirm  the  sentence ;  be  renunciation  her 
own  act.  For  the  sake  of  her  peace  of  mind " 

"God  give  me  patience!"  said  the  exasperated  lady. 
"How  securely  do  you  build  on  her  infatuation!  But 
you  shall  not  see  her.  If  she  consents  to  see  you,  I 
never  will  forgive  her.  If  she  once  more  relapses,  she 
is  undone.  She  shall  write  her  mind  to  you:  let  that 
serve.  I  will  permit  her — I  will  urge  her — to  write  to 
you:  let  that  serve." 

I  went  to  this  house  with  a  confused  perception  that 
this  visit  would  terminate  my  suspense.  "  One  more  in- 
terview with  Jane,"  thought  I,  "and  no  more  fluctuations 
or  uncertainty."  Yet  I  was  now  as  far  as  ever  from 
certainty.  Expostulation  was  vain.  She  would  not 
hear  me.  All  my  courage,  even  my  words  were  over- 
whelmed by  her  vehemence. 

After  much  hesitation,  and  several  efforts  to  gain  even 
a  hearing  of  my  pleas,  I  yielded  to  the  tide.  With  a 
drooping  heart,  I  consented  to  withdraw  with  my  dearest 
hope  unaccomplished. 

My  steps  involuntarily  brought  me  back  to  my  lodgings. 
Here  am  I  again  at  my  pen.  Never  were  my  spirits 
lower,  my  prospects  more  obscure,  my  hopes  nearer  to 
extinction. 

I  am  afraid  to  allow  you  too  near  a  view  of  my  heart 
at  this  moment  of  despondency.  My  present  feelings 
are  new  even  to  myself.  They  terrify  me.  I  must  not 
trust  myself  longer  alone.  I  must  shake  off,  or  try  to 
shake  off,  this  excruciating,  this  direful  melancholy. 


JANE   TALBOT.  197 

Heavy,  heavy  is  my  soul ;  comfortless  and  friendless  my 
condition.  Nothing  is  sweet  but  the  prospect  of  oblivion. 
But,  again  I  say,  these  thoughts  must  not  lead  me. 
Dreadful  and  downward  is  the  course  to  which  they  point. 
I  must  relinquish  the  pen.  I  must  sally  forth  into  the 
fields.  Naked  and  bleak  is  the  face  of  nature  at  this 
inclement  season;  but  what  of  that?  Dark  and  deso- 
late will  ever  be  my  world — but  I  will  not  write  another 
word. 

****** 

So,  my  friend,  I  have  returned  from  my  walk  Avith  a 
mind  more  a  stranger  to  tranquillity  than  when  I  sallied 
forth.  On  my  table  lay  the  letter,  which,  ere  I  seal 
this,  I  will  enclose  to  you.  Read  it  here. 


LETTER  L. 
To  Mr.  Golden. 

December  11. 

HEREAFTER  I  shall  be  astonished  at  nothing  but  that 
credulity  which  could  give  even  momentary  credit  to 
your  assertions. 

Most  fortunately,  my  belief  lasted  only  till  you  left 
the  house.  Then  my  scruples,  which  slept  for  a  moment, 
revived,  and  I  determined  to  clear  up  my  doubts  by 
immediately  calling  on  Miss  Jessup. 

If  any  thing  can  exceed  your  depravity,  sir,  it  is  your 
folly.  But  I  will  not  debase  myself:  my  indignation  at 
being  made  the  subject,  and,  for  some  minutes,  the  dupe, 
of  so  gross  and  so  profligate  an  artifice,  carries  me  beyond 
all  bounds.  What,  sir  ! — But  I  will  restrain  myself. 

I  would  not  leave  the  city  without  apprizing  you  of 
this  detection  of  your  schemes.  If  Miss  Jessup  were 
wise,  she  would  seek  a  just  revenge  for  so  atrocious  a 
slander. 

I  need  not  tell  you  that  I  have  seen  her ;  laid  the  letter 
before  her  which  you  delivered  to  me;  nor  do  I  need  to 
tell  you  what  her  anger  and  amazement  were  on  finding 
her  name  thus  abused. 


198  JANE   TALBOT. 

I  pity  you,  sir ;  I  grieve  for  you  :  you  have  talents  of  a 
certain  kind,  but  your  habits,  wretchedly  and  flagitiously 
perverse,  have  made  you  act  on  most  occasions  like  an 
idiot.  Their  iniquity  was  not  sufficient  to  deter  you  from 
impostures  which — but  I  scorn  to  chide  you. 

My  daughter  is  a  monument  of  the  success  of  your 
schemes.  But  their  success  shall  never  be  complete. 
"While  I  live,  she  shall  never  join  her  interests  with  yours. 
That  is  a  vow  which,  I  thank  God,  I  am  able  to  accom- 
plish ;  and  shall.  H.  FIELDER. 


LETTER  LI. 

To  James  Montford. 

December  13. 

Is  not  this  strange,  my  friend  ?  Miss  Jessup,  it  seems, 
has  denied  her  own  letter.  Surely  there  was  no  mistake, 
— no  mystery.  Let  me  look  again  at  the  words  in  the 
cover. 

Let  me  awake  !  Let  me  disabuse'  my  senses  !  Yes. 
It  is  plain.  Miss  Jessup  repented  her  of  her  confession. 
Something  in  that  unopened  letter — believing  the  con- 
tents of  that  known,  there  were  inducements  to  sincerity 
which  the  recovery  of  that  letter,  and  the  finding  it  un- 
opened, perhaps  annihilated.  Pride  resumed  its  power. 
Before  so  partial  a  judge  as  Mrs.  Fielder,  and  concerning 
a  wretch  so  worthy  of  discredit  as  I,  how  easy,  how  ob- 
vious to  deny,  and  to  impute  to  me  the  imposture  charged 
on  herself! 

Well,  and  what  is  now  to  be  done  ?  I  will  once  more 
return  to  Miss  Jessup.  I  will  force  myself  into  her  pre- 
sence, and  then But  I  have  not  a  moment  to  lose. 

***** 

And  this  was  the  night,  this  was  the  hour,  that  was  to 
see  my  Jane's  hand  wedded  to  mine !  That  event  Provi- 
dence, or  fate,  or  fortune,  stepped  in  to  forbid.  And 
must  it  then  pass  away  like  any  vulgar  hour  ? 

It  deserves  to  be  signalized,  to  be  made  memorable. 
What  forbids  but  sordid,  despicable  cowardice  ?  Not  vir- 


JANE    TALBOT.  199 

tue ;  not  the  love  of  universal  happiness ;  not  piety ;  not 
sense  of  duty  to  my  God  or  my  fellow-creatures.  These 
sentiments,  alas  !  burn  feebly  or  not  at  all  within  iny 
bosom. 

It  is  not  hope  that  restrains  my  hand.  For  what  is 
my  hope  ?  Independence,  dignity,  a  life  of  activity  and 
usefulness,  are  not  within  my  reach.  And  why  not? 
What  obstacles  arise  in  the  way? 

Have  I  not  youth,  health,  knowledge,  talents  ?  Twenty 
professional  roads  are  open  before  me,  and  solicit  me  to 
enter  them ;  but  no.  I  shall  never  enter  any  of  them. 
Be  all  earthly  powers  combined  to  force  me  into  the  right 
path, — the  path  of  duty,  honour,  and  interest:  they 
strive  in  vain. 

And  Avhence  this  incurable  folly? — this  rooted  inca- 
pacity of  acting  as  every  motive,  generous  and  selfish, 
combine  to  recommend?  Constitution;  habit;  insanity; 
the  dominion  of  some  evil  spirit,  who  insinuates  his  bane- 
ful power  between  the  will  and  the  act. 

And  this  more  congenial  good;  this  feminine  excel- 
lence ;  this  secondary  and  more  valuable  self;  this  woman 
who  has  appropriated  to  herself  every  desire,  every  emo- 
tion of  my  soul :  what  hope  remains  with  regard  to  her  ? 
Shall  I  live  for  her  sake? 

No.  Her  happiness  requires  me  to  be  blotted  out  of 
existence.  Let  me  unfold  myself  to  myself;  let  me  ask 
my  soul,  Canst  thou  wish  to  be  rejected,  renounced,  and 
forgotten  by  Jane  ?  Does  it  please  thee  that  her  happi- 
ness should  be  placed  upon  a  basis  absolutely  independent 
of  thy  lot?  Canst  thou,  with  a  true  and  fervent  zeal, 
resign  her  to  her  mother? 

I  can.     I  do. 

***** 

I  wish  I  had  words,  my  friend :  yet  why  do  I  wish  for 
them  ?  Why  sit  I  here,  endeavouring  to  give  form,  sub- 
stance, and  duration  to  images  to  which  it  is  guilty  and 
opprobrious  to  allow  momentary  place  in  my  mind  ?  Why 
do  I  thus  lay  up,  for  the  few  that  love  me,  causes  of  af- 
fliction? 

Yet  perhaps  I  accuse  myself  too  soon.  The  persua- 
sion that  I  have  one  friend  is  sweet.  I  fancy  myself 


200  JANE    TALBOT. 

talking  to  one  who  is  interested  in  my  happiness ;  but 
this  shall  satisfy  me.  If  fate  impel  me  to  any  rash  and 
irretrievable  act,  I  will  take  care  that  no  legacy  of  sorrow 
shall  be  left  to  my  survivors.  My  fate  shall  be  buried  in 
oblivion.  No  busy  curiosity,  no  affectionate  zeal,  shall 
trace  the  way  that  I  have  gone.  No  mourning  footsteps 
shall  haunt  my  grave. 

I  am,  indeed,  my  friend — never,  never  before,  spiritless 
and  even  hopeless  as  I  have  sometimes  been,  have  my 
thoughts  been  thus  gloomy.  Never  felt  I  so  enamoured 
of  that  which  seems  to  be  the  cure-all. 

Often  have  I  wished  to  slide  obscurely  and  quietly  into 
the  grave;  but  this  wish,  while  it  saddened  my  bosom, 
never  raised  my  hand  against  my  life.  It  made  me  will- 
ingly expose  my  safety  to  the  blasts  of  pestilence ;  it 
made  me  court  disease ;  but  it  never  set  my  imagination 
in  search  after  more  certain  and  speedy  means. 

Yet  I  am  wonderfully  calm.  I  can  still  reason  on  the 
folly  of  despair.  I  know  that  a  few  days,  perhaps  a  few 
hours,  will  bring  me  some  degree  of  comfort  and  courage ; 
will  make  life,  with  all  its  disappointments  and  vexations, 
endurable  at  least. 

Would  to  Heaven  I  were  not  quite  alone !  Left  thus 
to  my  greatest  enemy,  myself,  I  feel  that  I  am  capable 
of  deeds  which  I  fear  to  name. 

A  few  minutes  ago  I  was  anxious  to  find  Miss  Jessup ; 
to  gain  another  interview  with  Mrs.  Fielder.  Both  the 
one  and  the  other  have  left  the  city.  Jane's  dwelling  is 
deserted.  Shortly  after  I  left  it,  they  set  out  upon  their 
journey,  and  Miss  Jessup — no  doubt,  to  avoid  another 
interview  with  me — has  precipitately  withdrawn  into  the 
country. 

I  shall  not  pursue  their  steps.  Let  things  take  their 
course.  No  doubt,  a  lasting  and  effectual  remorse  will, 
some  time  or  other,  reach  the  heart  of  Miss  Jessup,  and 
this  fatal  error  will  be  rectified.  I  need  not  live,  I  need 
not  exert  myself,  to  hasten  the  discovery.  I  can  do 
nothing. 


JANE   TALBOT.  201 

LETTER  LII. 
To  Mrs.  Fielder. 

Philadelphia,  December  1C. 

IT  is  not  improbable  that,  as  soon  as  you  recognise  the 
hand  that  wrote  this  letter,  you  will  throw  it  unread  into 
the  fire ;  yet  it  comes  not  to  soothe  resentment,  or  to  sup- 
plicate for  mercy.  It  seeks  not  a  favourable  audience. 
It  wishes  not — because  the  wish  would  be  chimerical — to 
have  its  assertions  believed.  It  expects  not  even  to  be 
read.  All  I  hope  is,  that,  though  neglected,  despised, 
and  discredited  for  the  present,  it  may  not  be  precipi- 
tately destroyed  or  utterly  forgotten.  The  time  will 
come  when  it  will  be  read  with  a  different  spirit. 

You  inform  me  that  Miss  Jessup  has  denied  her  letter, 
and  imputes  to  me  the  wickedness  of  forging  her  name 
to  a  false  confession.  You  are  justly  astonished  at  the 
iniquity  and  folly  of  what  you  deem  my  artifice.  This 
astonishment,  when  you  look  back  upon  my  past  miscon- 
duct, is  turned  from  me  to  yourself;  from  my  folly  to  your 
own  credulity,  that  was,  for  a  moment,  made  the  dupe  of 
my  contrivances. 

I  can  say  nothing  that  will  or  that  ought — that  is  my 
peculiar  misery, — that  ought,  considering  the  measure 
of  my  real  guilt,  to  screen  me  from  this  charge.  There 
is  but  one  event  that  can  shake  your  opinion.  An  event 
that  is  barely  possible ;  that  may  not  happen,  if  it  happen 
at  all,  till  the  lapse  of  years ;  and  from  which,  even  if  I 
were  alive,  I  could  not  hope  to  derive  advantage.  Miss 
Jessup's  conscience  may  awaken  time  enough  to  enable 
her  to  undeceive  you,  and  to  repent  of  her  second  as  well 
as  her  first  fraud. 

If  that  event  ever  takes  place,  perhaps  this  letter  may 
still  exist  to  bear  testimony  to  my  rectitude.  Thrown 
aside  and  long  forgotten,  or  never  read,  chance  may  put 
it  in  your  way  once  more.  Time,  that  soother  of  resent- 
ment as  well  as  lessener  of  love,  and  the  perseverance  of 
your  daughter  in  the  way  you  prescribe,  may  soften  your 
asperities  even  towards  me.  A  generous  heart  like  yours 


2()'2  JANE   TALBOT. 

will  feel  an  emotion  of  joy  that  I  have  not  been  quite  as 
guilty  as  you  had  reason  to  believe. 

Give  me  leave,  madam,  to  anticipate  that  moment.  The 
number  of  my  consolations  are  few.  Your  enmity  I  rank 
among  my  chief  misfortunes,  and  the  more  so  because  I 
deserve  much,  though  not  all  your  enmity.  The  persua- 
sion that  the  time  will  come  when  you  will  acquit  me  of 
this  charge,  is,  even  now,  a  comforter.  This  is  more  de- 
sirable to  me,  since  it  will  relieve  your  daughter  from 
one  among  the  many  evils  in  which  she  has  been  involved 
by  the  vices  and  infirmities  of  H.  GOLDEN. 


LETTER  Lin. 

To  James  Montford. 

Philadelphia,  December  17. 

I  SOUGHT  relief  a  second  time  to  my  drooping  heart,  by 
a  walk  in  the  fields.  Returning,  I  met  Harriet  Thomson 
in  the  street.  The  meeting  was  somewhat  unexpected. 
Since  we  parted  at  Baltimore,  I  imagined  she  had  re- 
turned to  her  old  habitation  in  Jersey.  I  knew  she  was 
pretty  much  a  stranger  in  this  city.  Night  had  already 
come  on,  and  she  was  alone.  She  greeted  me  with  visible 
satisfaction ;  and,  though  I  was  very  little  fit  for  society, 
especially  of  those  who  loved  me  not,  I  thought  common 
civility  required  me  to  attend  her  home. 

I  never  saw  this  woman  till  I  met  her  lately  at  her 
brother's  bedside.  Her  opinions  of  me  were  all  derived 
from  unfavourable  sources,  and  I  knew,  from  good  author- 
ity, that  she  regarded  me  as  a  dangerous  and  hateful 
character.  I  had  even,  accidentally,  heard  her  opinion 
of  the  affair  between  Jane  and  me.  Jane  was  severely 
censured  for  credulity  and  indiscretion,  but  some  excuse 
was  allowed  to  her  on  the  score  of  the  greater  guilt  that 
was  placed  to  my  account. 

Her  behaviour,  when  we  first  met,  was  somewhat  con- 
formable to  these  impressions.  A  good  deal  of  coldness 
and  reserve  in  her  deportment,  which  I  was  sometimes 
sorry  for,  as  she  seems  an  estimable  creature ;  meek,  affec- 


JANE    TALBOT.  203 

tionate,  tender,  passionately  loving  her  brother;  con- 
vinced, from  the  hour  of  her  first  arrival,  that  his  disease 
was  a  hopeless  one,  yet  exerting  a  surprising  command 
over  her  feelings,  and  performing  every  office  of  a  nurse 
with  skill  and  firmness. 

Insensibly  the  distance  between  us  grew  less.  A  par- 
ticipation in  the  same  calamity,  and  the  counsel  and  aid 
which  her  situation  demanded,  forced  her  to  lay  aside 
some  of  her  reserve.  Still,  however,  it  seemed  but  a 
submission  to  necessity;  and  all  advances  were  made 
with  an  ill  grace. 

She  was  often  present  when  her  brother  turned  the  dis- 
course upon  religious  subjects.  I  have  long  since  abjured 
the  vanity  of  disputation.  There  is  no  road  to  truth  but  by 
meditation, — severe,  intense,  candid,  and  dispassionate. 
What  others  say  on  doubtful  subjects,  I  shall  henceforth 
lay  up  as  materials  for  meditation. 

I  listened  to  my  dying  friend's  arguments  and  admoni- 
tions, I  think  I  may  venture  to  say,  with  a  suitable  spirit. 
The  arrogant  or  disputatious  passions  could  not  possibly 
find  place  in  a  scene  like  this.  Even  if  I  thought  him 
in  the  wrong,  what  but  brutal  depravity  could  lead  me  to 
endeavour  to  shake  his  belief  at  a  time  when  sickness  had 
made  his  judgment  infirm,  and  when  his  opinion  supplied 
his  sinking  heart  with  confidence  and  joy? 

But,  in  truth,  I  was  far  from  thinking  him  in  the  wrong. 
At  any  time  I  should  have  allowed  infinite  plausibility  and 
subtlety  to  his  reasonings,  and  at  this  time  I  confessed 
them  to  be  weighty.  Whether  they  were  most  weighty 
in  the  scale  could  be  only  known  by  a  more  ample  and 
deliberate  view  and  comparison  than  it  was  possible,  with 
the  spectacle  of  a  dying  friend  before  me,  and  with  so 
many  solicitudes  and  suspenses  about  me  respecting  Jane, 
to  bestow  on  them.  Meanwhile,  I  treasured  them  up,  and 
determined,  as  I  told  him,  that  his  generous  efforts  for 
my  good  should  not  be  thrown  away. 

At  first,  his  sister  was  very  uneasy  when  her  brother 
entered  on  the  theme  nearest  to  his  friendly  heart.  She 
seemed  apprehensive  of  dispute  and  contradiction.  This 
apprehension  was  quickly  removed,  and  she  thenceforth 
encourao-ed  the  discourse.  She  listened  with  delight  and 


204  JANE   TALBOT. 

eagerness,  and  her  eye,  frequently,  when  my  friend's  elo- 
quence was  most  affecting,  appealed  to  me.  It  sometimes 
conveyed  a  meaning  far  more  powerful  than  her  brother's 
lips,  and  expressed  at  once  the  strongest  conviction  of  the 
truth  of  his  words,  and  the  most  fervent  desire  that  they 
might  convince  me.  Her  natural  modesty,  joined,  no 
doubt,  to  her  disesteem  of  my  character,  prevented  her 
from  mixing  in  discourse. 

She  greeted  me  at  this  meeting  with  a  frankness  which 
I  did  not  expect.  A  disposition  to  converse,  and  atten- 
tiveness  to  the  few  words  that  I  had  occasion  to  say,  were 
very  evident.  I  was  just  then  in  the  most  dejected  and 
forlorn  state  imaginable.  My  heart  panted  for  some 
friendly  bosom,  into  which  I  might  pour  my  cares.  I 
had  reason  to  esteem  the  purity,  sweetness,  and  amiable 
qualities  of  this  good  girl.  Her  aversion  to  me  naturally 
flowed  from  these  qualities,  while  an  abatement  of  that 
aversion  was  flattering  to  me,  as  the  triumph  of  feeling 
over  judgment. 

I  should  have  left  her  at  the  door  of  her  lodgings,  but 
she  besought  me  to  go  in  so  earnestly,  that  my  facility, 
rather  than  my  inclination,  complied.  She  saw  that  I  was 
absent  and  disturbed.  I  never  read  compassion  and  (shall 
I  say?)  good-will  in  any  eye  more  distinctly  than  in  hers. 

The  conversation  for  a  time  was  vague  and  trite.  In- 
sensibly, the  scenes  lately  witnessed  were  recalled,  not 
without  many  a  half-stifled  sigh  and  ill-disguised  tear  on 
her  part.  Some  arrangements  as  to  the  letters  and  papers 
of  her  brother  were  suggested.  I  expressed  a  wish  to 
have  my  letters  restored  to  me ;  I  alluded  to  those  letters, 
written  in  the  sanguine  insolence  of  youth  and  with  the 
dogmatic  rage  upon  me,  that  have  done  me  so  much  mis- 
chief with  Mrs.  Fielder.  I  had  not  thought  of  them 
before;  but  now  it  occurred  to  me  that  they  might  as 
well  be  destroyed. 

This  insensibly  led  the  conversation  into  more  interest- 
ing topics.  I  could  not  suppress  my  regret  that  I  had 
ever  written  some  things  in  those  letters,  and  informed 
her  that  my  view  in  taking  them  back  was  to  doom  them 
to  that  oblivion  from  which  it  would  have  been  happy  for 
me  if  they  never  had  been  called. 


JANE    TALBOT.  205 

After  many  tacit  intimations,  much  reluctance  and 
timidity  to  inquire  and  communicate,  I  was  greatly  sur- 
prised to  discover  that  these  letters  had  heen  seen  by 
her  ;  that  Mrs.  Fielder's  character  was  not  unknown  to 
her ;  that  she  was  no  stranger  to  her  brother's  disclosures 
to  that  lady. 

Without  directly  expressing  her  thoughts,  it  was  easy 
to  perceive  that  her  mind  was  full  of  ideas  produced  by 
these  letters,  by  her  brother's  discourse,  and  by  curiosity 
as  to  my  present  opinions.  Her  modesty  laid  restraint 
on  her  lips.  She  was  fearful,  I  supposed,  of  being 
thought  forward  and  impertinent. 

I  endeavoured  to  dissipate  these  apprehensions.  All 
about  this  girl  was,  on  this  occasion,  remarkably  attractive. 
I  loved  her  brother,  and  his  features  still  survive  in  her. 
The  only  relation  she  has  left  is  a  distant  one,  on  whose 
regard  and  protection  she  has  therefore  but  slender  claims. 
Her  mind  is  rich  in  all  the  graces  of  ingenuousness  and 
modesty.  The  curiosity  she  felt  respecting  me  made  me 
grateful  as  for  a  token  of  regard.  I  was  therefore  not 
backward  to  unfold  the  true  state  of  my  mind. 

Now  and  then  she  made  seasonable  and  judicious  com- 
ments on  what  I  said.  Was  there  any  subject  of.inquiry 
more  momentous  than  the  truth  of  religion?  If  my  doubts 
and  heresies  had  involved  me  in  difficulties,  was  not  the 
remedy  obvious  and  easy?  Why  not  enter  on  regular  dis- 
cussions, and,  having  candidly  and  deliberately  formed 
my  creed,  adhere  to  it  frankly,  firmly,  and  consistently  ? 
A  state  of  doubt  and  indecision  was,  in  every  view,  hurt- 
ful, criminal,  and  ignominious.  Conviction,  if  it  were  in 
favour  of  religion,  would  insure  me  every  kind  of  happi- 
ness. It  would  forward  even  those  schemes  of  temporal 
advantage  on  which  I  might  be  intent.  It  would  recon- 
cile those  whose  aversion  arose  from  difference  of  opinion ; 
and  in  cases  where  it  failed  to  benefit  my  worldly  views, 
it  would  console  me  for  my  disappointment. 

If  my  inquiries  should  establish  an  irreligious  convic- 
tion, still,  any  form  of  certainty  was  better  than  doubt. 
The  love  of  truth  and  the  consciousness  of  that  certainty 
would  raise  me  above  hatred  and  slander.  I  should  then 
have  some  kind  of  principle  by  which  to  regulate  my 
18 


206  JANE    TAL130T. 

conduct;  I  should  then  know  on  what  foundation  to 
build.  To  fluctuate,  to  waver,  to  postpone  inquiry,  was 
more  criminal  than  any  kind  of  opinion  candidly  inves- 
tigated and  firmly  adopted,  and  would  more  effectually 
debar  me  from  happiness.  At  my  age,  with  my  talents 
and  inducements,  it  was  sordid,  it  was  ignoble,  it  was 
culpable,  to  allow  indifference  or  indolence  to  slacken  my 
zeal. 

These  sentiments  were  conveyed  in  various  broken 
hints  and  modest  interrogatories.  While  they  mortified, 
they  charmed  me;  they  enlightened  me  while  they  per- 
plexed. I  came  away  with  my  soul  roused  by  a  new 
impulse.  I  have  emerged  from  a  dreary  torpor,  not  in- 
deed to  tranquillity  or  happiness,  but  to  something  less 
fatal,  less  dreadful. 

Would  you  think  that  a  ray  of  hope  has  broken  in 
upon  me  ?  Am  I  not  still,  in  some  degree,  the  maker 
of  my  fortune  ?  Why  mournfully  ruminate  on  the  past, 
instead  of  looking  to  the  future  ?  How  wretched,  how 
criminal,  how  infamous,  are  my  doubts ! 

Alas  !  and  is  this  the  first  time  that  I  have  been  vir.ited 
by  such  thoughts  ?  How  often  has  this  transient  hope, 
this  momentary  zeal,  started  into  being,  hovered  in  my 
fancy,  and  vanished  !  Thus  will  it  ever  be. 

Need  I  mention — but  I  will  not  look  back.  To  what 
end?  .  Shall  I  grieve  or  rejoice  at  that  power  of  now 
and  then  escaping  from  the  past  ?  Could  it  operate  to 
my  amendment,  memory  should  be  ever  busy ;  but  I  fear 
that  it  would  only  drive  me  to  desperation  or  madness. 

H.  C. 


LETTER  LIV. 

Philadelphia,  December  19. 

I  HAVE  just  returned  from  a  visit  to  my  new  friend. 
I  begin  to  think  that  if  I  had  time  to  cultivate  her  good 
opinion  I  should  gain  as  much  of  it  as  I  deserve.  Her 
good-will,  her  sympathy  at  least,  might  be  awakened  in 
my  favour. 

We  have  had  a  long  conversation.     Her  distance  and 


JAKE    TALBOT.  207 

reserve  are  much  less  than  they  were.  She  blames  yet 
pities  me.  I  have  been  very  communicative,  and  have 
offered  her  the  perusal  of  all  the  letters  that  I  have 
lately  received  from  Mrs.  Talbot  as  vouchers  for  my 
sincerity. 

She  listened  favourably  to  my  account  of  the  unhappy 
misapprehensions  into  which  Mrs.  Fielder  had  fallen. 
She  was  disposed  to  be  more  severe  on  Miss  Jessup's 
imposture  than  even  my  irritated  passions  had  been. 

She  would  not  admit  that  Mrs.  Fielder's  antipathy  to 
my  alliance  with  her  daughter  was  without  just  grounds. 
She  thought  that  everlasting  separation  was  best  for  us 
both.  A  total  change  of  my  opinions  on  moral  subjects 
might  perhaps,  in  time,  subdue  the  mother's  aversion  to 
me ;  but  this  change  must  necessarily  be  slow  and  gra- 
dual. I  was  indeed  already,  from  my  own  account,  far 
from  being  principled  against  religion ;  but  this  was  only 
a  basis  whereon  to  build  the  hope  of  future  amendment. 
No  present  merit  could  be  founded  on  my  doubts. 

I  spared  not  myself  in  my  account  of  former  follies. 
The  recital  made  her  very  solemn.  I  had — I  had,  in- 
deed, been  very  faulty ;  my  present  embarrassments  were 
the  natural  and  just  consequences  of  my  misconduct.  I 
had  not  merited  a  different  destiny.  I  was  unworthy 
of  the  love  of  such  a  woman  as  Jane.  I  was  not  quali- 
fied to  make  her  happy.  I  ought  to  submit  to  banish- 
ment, not  only  as  to  a  punishment  justly  incurred,  but  in 
gratitude  to  one  whose  genuine  happiness,  taking  into 
view  her  mother's  character  and  the  sacrifices  to  which 
her  choice  of  me  would  subject  her,  would  be  most  effec- 
tually consulted  by  my  exile. 

This  was  an  irksome  lesson.  She  had  the  candour  not 
to  expect  my  cordial  concurrence  in  such  sentiments,  yet 
endeavoured  in  her  artless  manner  to  enforce  them.  She 
did  not  content  herself  with  placing  the  matter  in  this 
light.  She  still  continued  to  commend  the  design  of  a 
distant  voyage,  even*  should  I  intend  one  day  to  return. 
The  scheme  was  likely  to  produce  health  and  pleasure  to 
me.  It  offered  objects  which  a  rational  curiosity  must 
hold  dear.  The  interval  might  not  pass  away  unpro- 
pitiously to  me.  Time  might  effect  desirable  changes  in 


208  JANE    TALBOT. 

Mrs.  Fielder's  sentiments  and  views.  A  thousand  acci- 
dents might  occur  to  level  those  obstacles  which  were 
now  insuperable.  Pity  and  complacency  might  succeed 
to  abhorrence  and  scorn.  Gratitude  and  admiration  for 
the  patience,  meekness,  and  self-sacrifices  of  the  daughter 
might  gradually  bring  about  the  voluntary  surrender  of 
her  enmities;  besides,  that  event  must  one  day  come 
which  will  place  her  above  the  influence  of  all  mortal 
cares  and  passions. 

These  conversations  have  not  been  without  their  influ- 
ence. Yes,  my  friend,  my  mind  is  less  gloomy  and 
tumultuous  than  it  Avas.  I  look  forward  to  this  voyage 
with  stronger  hopes. 

Methinks  I  would  hear  once  more  from  Jane.  Could 
she  be  persuaded  cheerfully  to  acquiesce  in  her  mother's 
will ;  reserve  herself  for  fortunate  contingencies  ;  confide 
in  my  fidelity;  and  find  her  content  in  the  improvement 
of  her  time  and  fortune,  in  befriending  the  destitute, 
relieving,  by  her  superfluities,  the  needy,  and  consoling 
the  afflicted  by  her  sympathy,  advice,  and  succour,  would 
she  not  derive  happiness  from  these  sources,  though  dis- 
appointed in  the  wish  nearest  her  heart  ? 

Might  I  not  have  expected  a  letter  ere  this  ?  But  she 
knows  not  where  I  am, — probably  imagines  me  at  my 
father's  house.  Shall  I  not  venture  to  write  ?  a  last  and 
long  farewell  ?  Yet  have  I  not  said  already  all  that  the 
occasion  will  justify?  But,  if  I  would  write,  I  know 
not  how  to  address  her.  It  seems  she  has  not  gone  to 
New  York.  Her  mother  has  a  friend  in  Jersey,  whither 
she  prevailed  on  Jane  to  accompany  her.  I  suppose  it 
would  be  no  arduous  undertaking  to  trace  her  footsteps 
and  gain  an  interview,  and  perhaps  I  shall  find  the 
temptation  irresistible. 

Stephen  has  just  now  told  me,  by  letter,  that  he  sails 
in  ten  days.  There  will  be  time  enough  to  comply  with 
your  friendly  invitation.  My  sister  and  you  may  expect 
to  see  me  by  Saturday  night.  In  the  arms  of  my  true 
friends,  I  will  endeavour  to  forget  the  vexations  that  at 
present  prey  upon  the  peace  of  Your  II.  C. 


JANE   TALBOT.  209 

LETTER  LV. 

To  Henry  Golden. 

MY  mother  allows  me,  and  even  requires  me,  to  write 
to  you.  My  reluctance  to  do  so  is  only  overcome  by 
the  fear  of  her  displeasure ;  yet  do  not  mistake  me,  my 
friend.  Infer  not  from  this  reluctance  that  the  resolu- 
tion of  being  henceforward  all  that  my  mother  wishes 
can  be  altered  by  any  effort  of  .yours. 

Alas  !  how  vainly  do  I  boast  my  inflexibility !  My 
safety  lies  only  in  filling  my  ears  with  my  mother's  re- 
monstrances and  shutting  them  against  your  persuasive 
accents.  I  have  therefore  resigned  myself  wholly  to  my 
mother's  government.  I  have  consented  to  be  inacces- 
sible to  your  visits  or  letters. 

I  have  few  claims  on  your  gratitude  or  generosity ;  yet 
may  I  not  rely  on  the  humanity  of  your  temper  ?  To 
what  frequent  and  severe  tests  has  my  caprice  already 
subjected  your  affection !  and  has  it  not  remained  un- 
shaken and  undiminished  ?  Let  me  hope  that  you  will 
not  withhold  this  last  proof  of  your  affection  for  me. 

It  would  greatly  console  me  to  know  that  you  are 
once  more  on  filial  and  friendly  terms  with  your  father. 
Let  me  persuade  you  to  return  to  him ;  to  beseech  his 
favour.  I  hope  the  way  to  reconcilement  has  already 
been  paved  by  the  letter  jointly  addressed  to  him  by  my 
mother  and  myself;  that  nothing  is  wanting  but  a  sub- 
missive and  suitable  deportment  on  your  part,  to  restore 
you  to  the  station  you  possessed  before  you  had  any 
knowledge  of  me.  Let  me  exact  from  you  this  proof  of 
your  regard  for  me.  It  is  the  highest  proof  which  it 
will  henceforth  be  in  your  power  to  offer,  or  that  can 
ever  be  received  by  JANE  TALBOT. 


18* 


210  JANE   TALBOT. 


LETTER  LVI. 
To  Mrs.  Montford. 

MADAM  : —  Philadelphia,  October  7. 

It  is  with  extreme  reluctance  that  I  venture  to  address 
you  in  this  manner.  I  cannot  find  words  to  account  for 
or  apologize.  But,  if  you  be  indeed  the  sister  of  Henry 
Golden,  you  cannot  be  ignorant  of  me,  and  of  former 
transactions  between  us,  and  especially  the  circumstance 
that  now  compels  me  to  write:  you  can  be  no  stranger 
to  his  present  situation. 

Can  you  forgive  this  boldness  in  an  absolute  stranger 
to  your  person  but  not  to  your  virtues  ?  I  have  heard 
much  of  you,  from  one  in  whom  I  once  had  a  little  inte- 
rest ;  who  honoured  me  with  his  affection. 

I  know  that  you  lately  possessed  a  large  share  of  that 
affection.  I  doubt  not  that  you  still  retain  it,  and  are 
able  to  tell  me  what  has  become  of  him. 

I  have  a  long  time  struggled  with  myself  and  my  fears 
in  silence.  I  know  how  unbecoming  this  address  must 
appear  to  you,  and  yet,  persuaded  that  my  character  and 
my  relation  to  your  brother  are  well  known  to  you,  I 
have  been  able  to  curb  my  anxieties  no  longer. 

Do  then,  my  dearest  madam,  gratify  my  curiosity,  and 
tell  me,  without  delay,  what  has  become  of  your  brother. 

J.  TALBOT. 


LETTER  LVII. 

To  Jane  Talbot. 
MY  DEAR  MADAM  : —  New  York,  October  9. 


and  history  are  not  unknown  to  me;  and  such  is  my 
opinion  of  you,  that  there  is  probably  no  person  in  the 
world  more  solicitous  for  your  happiness,  and  more  de- 
sirous to  answer  any  inquiries  in  a  manner  agreeable  to 
you. 


JANE    TALBOT.  211 

Mr.  Golden  has  made  no  secret  to  us  of  the  relation 
in  which  he  stood  to  you.  We  are  well  acquainted  with 
the  cause  of  your  late  separation.  Will  you  excuse  me 
for  expressing  the  deep  regret  which  that  event  gave  me  ? 
That  regret  is  the  deeper,  since  the  measures  which  he 
immediately  adopted  have  put  it  out  of  his  power  to 
profit  by  any  change  in  your  views. 

My  husband's  brother  being  on  the  point  of  embark- 
ing in  a  voyage  to  the  western  coast  of  America  and  to 
China,  Mr.  Golden  prevailed  upon  his  friends  to  permit 
him  to  embark  also,  as  a  joint  adventurer  in  the  voyage. 
They  have  been  gone  already  upwards  of  a  year.  We 
have  not  heard  of  them  since  their  touching  at  Tobago 
and  Brazil. 

The  voyage  will  be  very  tedious ;  but,  as  it  will  open 
scenes  of  great  novelty  to  the  mind  of  our  friend,  and 
as  it  may  not  be  unprofitable  to  him,  we  were  the  more 
easily  disposed  to  acquiesce. 

Permit  me,  madam,  to  proffer  you  my  warmest  esteem 
and  my  kindest  services.  Your  letter  I  regard  as  a  flatter- 
ing proof  of  your  good  opinion,  which  I  shall  be  most 
happy  to  deserve  and  to  improve,  by  answering  every 
inquiry  you  may  be  pleased  to  make  respecting  one  for 
whom  I  have  entertained  the  affection  becoming  a  sister. 
I  am,  &c.  M.  MONTFORD. 

P.S. — Mr.  Montford  desires  to  join  me  in  my  offers  of 
service,  and  in  my  good  wishes. 


LETTER  LVIII. 
To  Mrs.  Montford. 

Philadelphia,  October  12. 

DEAR  MADAM: — 

How  shall  I  thank  you  for  the  kind  and  delicate  manner 
in  which  you  have  complied  with  my  request  ?  You  will 
not  be  surprised,  nor,  I  hope,  offended,  that  I  am  em- 
boldened to  address  you  once  more. 

I  see  that  I  need  not  practise  towards  you  a  reserve  at 
all  times  foreign  to  my  nature,  and  now  more  painful 


212  JANE    TALBOT. 

than  at  any  other  time,  as  my  soul  is  torn  with  emotions 
which  I  am  at  liberty  to  disclose  to  no  other  human  crea- 
ture. "Will  you  he  my  friend  ?  Will  you  permit  me  to 
claim  your  sympathy  and  consolation?  As  I  told  you 
before,  I  am  thoroughly  acquainted  with  your  merits, 
and  one  of  the  felicities  which  I  promised  myself  from  a 
nearer  alliance  with  Mr.  Golden  was  that  of  numbering 
myself  among  your  friends. 

You  have  deprived  me  of  some  hope  by  the  informa- 
tion you  give;  but  you  have  at  least  put  an  end  to  a 
suspense  more  painful  than  the  most  dreadful  certainty 
could  be. 

You  say  that  you  know  all  our  concerns.  In  pity  to 
my  weakness,  will  you  give  me  some  particulars  of  my 
friend?  I  am  extremely  anxious  to  know  many  things 
in  your  power  to  communicate. 

Perhaps  you  know  the  contents  of  my  last  letter  to 
him,  and  of  his  answer.  I  know  you  condemn  me.  You 
think  me  inconsiderate  and  cruel  in  writing  such  a  letter ; 
and  my  heart  does  not  deny  the  charge.  Yet  my  motives 
were  not  utterly  ungenerous.  I  could  not  bear  to  reduce 
the  man  I  loved  to  poverty.  I  could  not  bear  that  he 
should  incur  the  violence  and  curses  of  his  father.  I 
fondly  thought  myself  the  only  obstacle  to  reconcile- 
ment, and  was  willing,  whatever  it  cost  me,  to  remove 
that  obstacle. 

What  will  become  of  me,  if  my  fears  should  now  be 
realized  ? — if  the  means  which  I  used  with  no  other  view 
than  to  reconcile  him  to  his  family  should  have  driven 
him  away  from  them  and  from  his  country  forever?  I 
thank  my  God  that  I  was  capable  of  abandoning  him  on 
no  selfish  or  personal  account.  The  maledictions  of  my 
own  mother ;  the  scorn  of  the  world ;  the  loss  of  friends, 
reputation,  and  fortune,  weighed  nothing  with  me.  Great 
as  these  evils  were,  I  could  have  cheerfully  sustained 
them  for  his  sake.  What  I  did  was  in  oblivion  of  self; 
was  from  a  duteous  regard  to  his  genuine  and  lasting 
happiness.  Alas !  I  have,  perhaps,  mistaken  the  means, 
and  cruel  will,  I  fear,  be  the  penalty  of  my  error. 

Tell  me,  my  dear  friend,  was  not  Golden  reconciled  to 
his  father  before  he  went?  When  does  he  mean  to  re- 


JANE   TALBOT.  213 

turn  ?  What  said  he,  what  thought  he,  of  my  conduct  ? 
Did  he  call  me  ungrateful  and  capricious?  Did  he  vow 
never  to  see  or  think  of  me  more? 

I  have  regarded  the  promise  that  I  made  to  the  elder 
Golden,  and  to  my  mother,  as  sacred.  The  decease  of 
the  latter  has,  in  my  own  opinion,  absolved  me  from  any 
obligation  except  that  of  promoting  my  own  happiness 
and  that  of  him  whom  I  love.  I  shall  not  now  reduce 
him  to  indigence,  and,  that  consequence  being  precluded, 
I  cannot  doubt  of  his  father's  acquiescence. 

Ah,  dear  madam,  I  should  not  have  been  so  long  pa- 
tient, had  I  not,  as  it  now  appears,  been  lulled  into  a 
fatal  mistake.  I  could  not  taste  repose  till  I  was,  as  I 
thought,  certainly  informed  that  he  continued  to  reside 
in  his  father's  house.  This  proof  of  reconciliation,  and 
the  silence  which,  though  so  near  him,  he  maintained 
towards  me,  both  before  and  subsequently  to  my  mother's 
death,  contributed  to  persuade  me  that  his  condition  was 
not  unhappy,  and  especially  that  either  his  resentment 
or  his  prudence  had  made  him  dismiss  me  from  his 
thoughts. 

I  have  lately,  to  my  utter  astonishment,  discovered  that 
Golden,  immediately  after  his  last  letter  to  me,  went  upon 
some  distant  voyage,  whence,  though  a  twelvemonth  has 
since  passed,  he  has  not  yet  returned.  Hence  the  bold- 
ness of  this  address  to  you,  whom  I  know  only  by  rumour. 

You  will,  I  doubt  not,  easily  imagine  to  yourself  my 
feelings,  and  will  be  good  enough  to  answer  my  inquiries, 
if  you  have  any  compassion  for  your  J.  T. 


LETTER  LIX. 

To  Jane  Talbot. 

New  York,  October  15. 

I  HASTEN,  my  dear  madam,  to  reply  to  your  letter. 
The  part  you  have  assigned  me  I  will  most  cheerfully 
perform  to  the  utmost  of  my  power,  but  very  much  re- 
gret that  I  have  not  more  agreeable  tidings  to  communi- 
cate. 


214  JANE   TALBOT. 

Having  said  that  all  the  transactions  between  you  and 
my  brother  are  known  to  me,  I  need  not  apologize  for 
alluding  to  events,  which  I  could  not  excuse  myself  for 
doing  without  being  encouraged  by  the  frankness  and 
solicitude  which  your  own  pen  has  expressed. 

Immediately  after  the  determination  of  his  fate  in  re- 
gard to  you,  he  came  to  this  city.  He  favoured  us  with 
the  perusal  of  your  letters.  We  entirely  agreed  with 
him  in  applauding  the  motives  which  influenced  your  con- 
duct. We  had  no  right  to  accuse  you  of  precipitation 
or  inconsistency.  That  heart  must  indeed  be  selfish  and 
cold  which  could  not  comprehend  the  horror  which  must 
have  seized  you  on  hearing  of  his  father's  treatment. 
You  acted,  in  the  first  tumults  of  your  feelings,  as  every 
woman  would  have  acted.  That  you  did  not  immediately 
perceive  the  little  prospect  there  was  that  a  breach  of 
this  nature  would  be  repaired,  or  that  Golden  would  make 
use  of  your  undesired  and  unsought-for  renunciation  as 
a  means  of  reconcilement  with  his  father,  was  no  subject 
of  surprise  or  blame.  These  reflections  could  not  occur 
to  you  but  in  consequence  of  some  intimations  from 
others. 

Henry  Golden  was  no  indolent  or  mercenary  creature. 
No  one  more  cordially  detested  the  life  of  dependence  than 
he.  He  always  thought  that  his  father  had  discharged 
all  the  duties  of  that  relation  in  nourishing  his  childhood 
and  giving  him  a  good  education.  Whatever  has  been  since 
bestowed,  he  considered  as  voluntary  and  unrequited 
bounty ;  has  received  it  with  irksomeness  and  compunc- 
tion ;  and,  whatever  you  may  think  of  the  horrors  of 
indigence,  it  was  impossible  to  have  placed  him  in  a  more 
painful  situation  than  under  his  father's  roof. 

We  could  not  but  deeply  regret  the  particular  circum- 
stances under  which  he  left  his  father's  house ;  but  the 
mere  leaving  it,  and  the  necessity  which  thence  arose  of 
finding  employment  and  subsistence  for  himself,  was  not 
at  all  to  be  regretted. 

The  consequences  of  your  mother's  letter  to  the  father 
produced  no  resentment  in  the  son.  He  had  refused  what 
he  had  a  right  to  refuse,  and  what  had  been  pressed  upon 
the  giver  rather  than  sought  by  him.  The  mere  separa- 


JANE   TALBOT.  215 

tion  was  agreeable  to  Golden,  and  the  rage  that  accom- 
panied it  was  excited  by  the  young  man's  steadiness  in 
his  fidelity  to  you. 

You  were  not  aware  that  this  cause  of  anger  could  not 
be  removed  by  any  thing  done  by  you.  Golden  was  not 
sensible  of  any  fault.  There  was  nothing,  therefore,  for 
which  he  could  crave  pardon.  Blows  and  revilings  had 
been  patiently  endured,  but  he  was  actuated  by  no  tame 
or  servile  spirit.  He  never  would  expose  himself  to  new 
insults.  Though  always  ready  to  accept  apology  and 
grant  an  oblivion  of  the  past,  he  never  would  avow  coin- 

S  unction  which  he  did  not  feel,  or  confess  that  he  had 
eserved  the  treatment  which  he  had  received. 

All  this  it  was  easy  to  suggest  to  your  reflections,  and 
I  endeavoured  to  persuade  him  to  write  a  second  letter ; 
but  he  would  not.  "No,"  said  he,  "she  has  made  her 
election.  If  no  advantage  is  taken  of  her  tenderness 
and  pity,  she  will  be  happy  in  her  new  scheme.  Shall  I 
subject  her  to  new  trials,  new  mortifications  ?  Can  I 
flatter  myself  with  being  able  to  reward  her  by  my  love 
for  the  loss  of  every  other  comfort '?  No.  Whatever  she 
feels  for  me,  I  am  not  her  supreme  passion.  Her  mother 
is  preferred  to  me.  That  her  present  resolution  puts  out 
of  all  doubt.  All  upbraiding  and  repining  from  me  would 
be  absurd.  What  can  I  say  in  favour  of  my  attachment 
to  her,  which  she  may  not,  with  equal  reason,  urge  in 
favour  of  her  attachment  to  her  mother  ?  The  happi- 
ness of  one  or  other  must  be  forfeited.  Shall  I  not  rather 
offer  than  demand  the  sacrifice  ?  And  what  are  my  boasts 
of  magnanimity  if  I  do  not  strive  to  lessen  the  difficul- 
ties of  her  choice,  and  persuade  her  that,  in  gratifying 
her  mother,  she  inflicts  no  exquisite  or  lasting  misery 
on  me? 

"Iain  not  so  blind  but  that  I  can  foresee  the  effects 
on  my  tranquillity  of  time  and  variety  of  object.  If  I 
go  this  voyage,  I  may  hope  to  acquire  resignation  much 
sooner  than  by  staying  at  home.  To  leave  these  shores 
is,  in  every  view,  best  for  me.  I  can  do  nothing,  while 
here,  for  my  own  profit,  and  every  eye  I  meet  humbles 
and  distresses  me.  At  present,  I  do  not  wish  ever  to 
return;  but  I  suppose  the  absence  and  adventures  of  a 


216  JANE   TALBOT. 

couple  of  years  may  change  my  feelings  in  that  respect. 
My  condition,  too,  by  some  chance,  may  be  bettered.  I 
may  come  back,  and  offer  myself  to  her,  without  offering 
poverty  and  contempt  at  the  same  time.  Time,  or  some 
good  fortune,  may  remove  the  mother's  prejudices.  All 
this  is  possible ;  but,  if  it  never  takes  place,  if  my  con- 
dition never  improves,  I  will  never  return  home." 

When  we  urged  to  him  the  propriety  of  apprizing  you 
of  his  views,  not  only  for  your  sake,  but  for  his  own, — 
"What  need  is  there?  Has  she  not  prohibited  all  inter- 
course between  us?  Have  I  not  written  the  last  letter 
she  will  consent  to  receive  ?  On  my  own  account,  I  have 
nothing  to  hope.  I  have  stated  my  return  as  a  mere 
possibility.  I  do  not  believe  I  shall  ever  return.  If  I 
did  expect  it,  I  know  Jane  too  well  to  have  any  fears  of 
her  fidelity.  While  I  am  living,  or  as  long  as  my  death 
is  uncertain,  her  heart  will  be  mine,  and  she  will  reserve 
herself  for  me." 

I  know  you  will  excuse  me,  madam,  for  being  thus 
particular.  I  thought  it  best  to  state  the  views  of  our 
friend  in  his  own  words.  From  these  your  judgment  will 
enable  you  to  form  the  truest  conclusions. 

The  event  that  has  since  happened  has  probably  re- 
moved the  only  obstacle  to  your  mutual  happiness;  nor 
am  I  without  the  hope  of  seeing  him  one  day  return  to 
be  made  happy  by  your  favour.  As  several  passages 
were  expected  to  be  made  between  China  and  Nootka, 
that  desirable  event  cannot  be  expected  to  be  very  near. 

M.  M. 


LETTER  LX. 
To  Mrs.  Montford. 

Philadelphia,  October  20. 

AH,  dear  madam !  how  much  has  your  letter  afflicted, 
how  much  has  it  consoled  me ! 

You  have  then  some  hope  of  his  return ;  but,  you  say, 
'twill  be  a  long  time  first.  He  has  gone  where  I  cannot 
follow  him ;  to  the  end  of  the  world ;  where  even  a  letter 


JANE   TALBOT.  217 

cannot  find  him ;  into  unwholesome  climates ;   through 
dangerous  elements ;  among  savages 

Alas !  I  have  no  hope.  Among  so  many  perils,  it  can- 
not be  expected  that  he  should  escape.  And  did  he  not 
say  that  he  meant  not  to  return  ? 

Yet  one  thing  consoles  me.  He  left  not  his  curses  or 
reproaches  on  my  head.  Kindly,  generously,  and  justly 
didst  thou  judge  of  my  fidelity,  Henry.  While  thou 
livest,  and  as  long  as  I  live,  will  I  cherish  thy  image. 

I  am  coming  to  pass  the  winter  in  your  city.  I  adopt 
this  scheme  merely  because  it  will  give  me  your  company. 
I  feel  as  if  you  were  the  only  friend  I  have  in  the  world. 
Do  not  think  me  forward  or  capricious.  I  will  not  deny 
that  you  owe  your  place  in  my  affections  chiefly  to  your 
relation  to  the  wanderer ;  but  no  matter  whence  my  at- 
tachment proceeds.  I  feel  that  it  is  strong ;  merely  self- 
ish, perhaps ;  the  child  of  a  distracted  fancy;  the  prop  on 
which  a  sinking  heart  relies  in  its  uttermost  extremity. 

Reflection  stings  me  to  the  quick,  but  it  does  not  deny 
me  some  consolation.  The  memory  of  my  mother  calls 
forth  tears,  but  they  are  not  tears  of  bitterness.  To  her, 
at  least,  I  have  not  been  deficient  in  dutiful  observance. 
I  have  sacrificed  my  friend  and  myself,  but  it  was  to  her 
peace.  The  melancholy  of  her  dying  scene  will  ever  be 
cheered  in  my  remembrance  by  her  gratitude  and  bless- 
ing. Her  last  words  were  these : — 

"  Thou  hast  done  much  for  me,  my  child.  I  begin  to 
fear  that  I  have  exacted  too  much.  Your  sweetness,  your 
patience,  have  wrung  my  heart  with  compunction. 

"  I  have  wronged  thee,  Jane.  I  have  wronged  the  ab- 
sent ;  I  greatly  fear,  I  have.  Forgive  me.  If  you  ever 
meet,  entreat  him  to  forgive  me,  and  recompense  your- 
self and  him  for  all  your  mutual  sufferings. 

"I  hope  all,  though  sorrowful,  has  been  for  the  best. 
I  hope  that  angelic  sweetness  which  I  have  witnessed  will 
continue  when  I  am  gone.  That  belief  only  can  make 
my  grave  peaceful. 

"  I  leave  you  affluence  and  honour  at  least.  I  leave 
you  the  means  of  repairing  my  injury.  That  is  my  com- 
fort ;  but  forgive  me,  Jane.  Say,  my  child,  you  forgive 
me  for  what  has  passed." 

19 


218  JANE   TALBOT. 

She  stretched  her  hand  to  me,  which  I  bathed  with 
my  tears. — But  this  subject  afflicts  me  too  much. 

Give  my  affectionate  compliments  to  Mr.  Montford,  and 
tell  me  that  you  wish  to  see  your  JANE. 


LETTER  LXI. 
To  Mrs.  Talbot. 

New  York,  October  22. 

You  tell  me,  my  dear  Jane,  that  you  are  coming  to 
reside  in  this  city ;  but  you  have  not  gratified  my  im- 
patience by  saying  how  soon.  Tell  me  when  you  propose 
to  come.  Is  there  not  something  in  which  I  can  be  of 
service  to  you? — some  preparations  to  be  made? 

Tell  me  the  day  when  you  expect  to  arrive  among  us, 
that  I  may  wait  on  you  as  soon  as  possible. 

I  shall  embrace  my  sister  with  a  delight  which  I  cannot 
express.  I  will  not  part  with  the  delightful  hope  of  one 
day  calling  you  truly  such. 

Accept  the  fraternal  regards  of  Mr.  Montford. 

M.M. 


LETTER  LXII. 

To  Mrs.  Montford. 

Banks  of  Delaware,  September  5. 

BE  not  anxious  for  me,  Mary.  I  hope  to  experience 
very  speedy  relief  from  the  wholesome  airs  that  perpetually 
fan  this  spot.  Your  apprehensions  from  the  influence  of 
these  scenes  on  my  fancy  are  groundless.  They  breathe 
nothing  over  my  soul  but  delicious  melancholy.  I  have 
done  expecting  and  repining,  you  know.  Four  years 
have  passed  since  I  was  here, — since  I  met  your  brother 
under  these  shades. 

I  have  already  visited  every  spot  which  has  been  con- 
secrated by  our  interviews.  I  have  found  the  very  rail 
which,  as  I  well  remember,  we  disposed  into  a  bench,  at 


JAM;  TALBUT.  211) 

the  skirt  of  a  wood  bordering  a  stubble-field.  The  same 
pathway  through  the  thicket  where  I  have  often  walked 
with  him,  I  now  traverse  morning  and  night. 

Be  not  uneasy,  I  repeat,  on  my  account.  My  present 
situation  is  happier  than  the  rest  of  the  world  can  afford. 
I  tell  you  I  have  done  repining.  I  have  done  sending 
forth  my  views  into  an  earthly  futurity.  Anxiety,  I 
hope,  is  now  at  an  end  with  me. 

What  do  you  think  I  design  to  do  ?  I  assure  you  it  is 
no  new  scheme.  Ever  since  my  mother's  death,  I  have 
thought  of  it  at  times.  It  has  been  my  chief  consolation. 
I  never  mentioned  it  to  you,  because  I  knew  you  would 
not  approve  it.  It  is  this. 

To  purchase  this  farm  and  take  up  my  abode  upon  it 
for  the  rest  of  my  life.  I  need  not  become  farmer,  you 
know.  I  can  let  the  ground  to  some  industrious  person, 
upon  easy  terms.  I  can  add  all  the  furniture  and  appen- 
dages to  this  mansion,  which  my  convenience  requires. 
Luckily,  Sandford  has  for  some  time  entertained  thoughts 
of  parting  with  it,  and  I  believe  he  could  not  find  a  more 
favourable  purchaser. 

You  will  tell  me  that  the  fields  are  sterile,  the  barn 
small,  the  stable  crazy,  the  woods  scanty.  These  would 
be  powerful  objections  to  a  mere  tiller  of  the  earth,  but 
they  are  none  to  me. 

'Tis  true,  it  is  washed  by  a  tide- water.  The  bank  is 
low,  and  the  surrounding  country  sandy  and  flat,  and  you 
may  think  I  ought  rather  to  prefer  the  beautiful  variety 
of  hill  and  dale,  luxuriant  groves  and  fertile  pastures, 
which  abound  in  other  parts  of  the  country.  But  you 
know,  my  friend,  the  mere  arrangement  of  inanimate 
objects — wood,  grass,  and  rock — is  nothing.  It  owes  its 
power  of  bewitching  us  to  the  memory,  the  fancy,  and  the 
heart.  No  spot  of  earth  can  possibly  teem  with  as  many 
affecting  images  as  this ;  for  here  it  was 

But  my  eyes  already  overflow.  In  the  midst  of  these 
scenes,  remembrance  is  too  vivid  to  allow  me  thus  to  de- 
scant on  them.  At  a  distance  I  could  talk  of  them  with- 
out that  painful  emotion,  and  now  it  would  be  useless 
repetition.  Have  I  not,  more  than  once,  related  to  you 
every  dialogue,  described  every  interview  ? 


220  JANE    TALBOT. 

God  bless  you,  dear  Mary,  and  continue  to  you  all  your 
present  happiness. 

Don't  forget  to  write  to  me.  Perhaps  some  tidings  may 
reach  you — Down,  thou  flattering  hope !  thou  throbbing 
heart,  peace !  He  is  gone.  These  eyes  will  never  see 
him  more.  Had  an  angel  whispered  the  fatal  news  in 
my  wakeful  ear,  I  should  not  more  firmly  believe  it. 

And  yet — But  I  must  not  heap  up  disappointments  for 
myself.  Would  to  Heaven  there  was  no  room  for  the 
least  doubt, — that,  one  way  or  the  other,  his  destiny  was 
ascertained ! 

How  agreeable  is  your  intelligence  that  Mr.  Cartwright 
has  embarked,  after  taking  cheerful  leave  of  you!  It 
grieves  me,  my  friend,  that  you  do  not  entirely  approve 
of  my  conduct  towards  that  man.  I  never  formally  at- 
tempted to  justify  myself.  'Twas  a  subject  on  which  I 
could  not  give  utterance  to  my  thoughts.  How  irksome 
is  blame  from  those  we  love !  there  is  instantly  suspicion 
that  blame  is  merited.  A  new  process  of  self-defence  is 
to  be  gone  over,  and  ten  to  one  but  that,  after  all  our 
efforts,  there  are  some  dregs  at  the  bottom  of  the  cup. 

I  was  half  willing  to  found  my  excuse  on  the  hope  of 
the  wanderer's  return ;  but  I  am  too  honest  to  urge  a  false 
plea.  Besides,  I  know  that  certainty,  in  that  respect, 
would  make  no  difference ;  and  would  it  not  be  fostering 
in  him  a  hope  that  my  mind  might  be  changed  in  conse- 
quence of  being  truly  informed  respecting  your  brother's 
fate? 

I  persuade  myself  that  a  man  of  Cartwright's  integrity 
and  generosity  cannot  be  made  lastingly  unhappy  by  me. 
I  know  but  of  one  human  being  more  excellent.  Though 
his  sensibility  be  keen,  I  trust  to  his  fortitude. 

It  is  true,  Mary,  what  you  have  heard.  Cartwright 
was  my  school-fellow.  When  we  grew  to  an  age  that 
made  it  proper  to  frequent  separate  schools,  he  did  not 
forget  me.  The  schools  adjoined  each  other,  and  he  used 
to  resist  all  the  enticements  of  prison-base  and  cricket 
for  the  sake  of  waiting  at  the  door  of  our  school  till  it 
broke  up,  and  then  accompanying  me  home. 

These  little  gallant  offices  made  him  quite  singular 
among  his  compeers,  and  drew  on  him  and  on  me  a  good 


JANE  TALBOT.  221 

deal  of  ridicule.  But  he  did  not  mind  it.  I  thought 
him,  and  everybody  else  thought  him,  a  most  amiable  and 
engaging  youth,  though  only  twelve  or  thirteen  years  old. 

'Tis  impossible  to  say  what  might  have  happened  had 
he  not  gone  with  his  mother  to  Europe ;  or  rather,  it  is 
likely,  I  think,  that  our  fates,  had  he  stayed  among  us, 
would  in  time  have  been  united.  But  he  went  away  when 
I  was  scarcely  fourteen.  At  parting,  I  remember,  we 
shed  a  great  many  tears  and  exchanged  a  great  many 
kisses,  and  promises  not  to  forget.  And  that  promise 
never  was  broken  by  me.  He  was  always  dear  to  my 
remembrance. 

Time  has  only  improved  all  the  graces  of  the  boy.  I 
will  not  conceal  from  you,  Mary,  that  nothing  but  a  pre- 
occupied heart  has  been  an  obstacle  to  his  wishes.  If 
that  impediment  had  not  existed,  my  reverence  for  his 
worth,  my  gratitude  for  his  tenderness,  would  have  made 
me  comply.  I  will  even  go  further ;  I  will  say  to  you, 
though 'my  regard  to  his  happiness  will  never  suffer  me 
to  say  it  to  him,  that  if  three  years  more  pass  away,  and 
I  am  fully  assured  that  your  brother's  absence  will  be 
perpetual,  and  Cartwright's  happiness  is  still  in  my  hands, 
— that  then — I  possibly  may — But  I  am  sure  that,  before 
that  time,  his  hand  and  his  heart  will  be  otherwise  dis- 
posed of.  Most  sincerely  shall  I  rejoice  at  the  last  event. 

All  are  well  here.  My  friend  is  as  good-natured  and 
affectionate  as  ever,  and  sings  as  delightfully  and  plays 
as  adroitly.  She  humours  me  with  all  my  favourite  airs, 
twice  a  day.  We  have  no  strangers ;  no  impertinents 
to  intermeddle  in  our  conversations  and  mar  our  enjoy- 
ments. 

You  know  what  turn  my  studies  have  taken,  and  what 
books  I  have  brought  with  me.  'Tis  remarkable  what 
unlooked-for  harvests  arise  from  small  and  insignificant 
germs.  My  affections  have  been  the  stimulants  to  my 
curiosity.  What  was  it  induced  me  to  procure  maps  and 
charts  and  explore  the  course  of  the  voyager  over  seas 
and  round  capes?  There  was  a  time  when  these  objects 
were  wholly  frivolous  and  unmeaning  in  my  eyes;  but 
now  they  gain  my  whole  attention. 

When  I  found  that  my  happiness  was  embarked  with 
19* 


2'2Z  JANE    TALBOT. 

your  brother  in  a  tedious  and  perilous  voyage,  was  it  pos- 
sible to  forbear  collecting  all  the  information  attainable 
respecting  his  route,  and  the  incidents  likely  to  attend 
it?  I  got  maps  and  charts,  and  books  of  voyages,  and 
found  a  melancholy  enjoyment  in  connecting  the  incidents 
and  objects  which  they  presented  with  the  destiny  of  my 
friend.  The  pursuit  of  this  chief  and  most  interesting 
object  has  brought  within  view  and  prompted  me  to  exa- 
mine a  thousand  others,  on  which,  without  this  original 
inducement,  I  should  never  have  bestowed  a  thought. 

The  map  of  the  world  exists  in  my  fancy  in  a  most 
vivid  and  accurate  manner.  Repeated  meditation  on 
displays  of  shoal,  sand-bank,  and  water,  has  created  a 
sort  of  attachment  to  geography  for  its  own  sake.  I 
have  often  reflected  on  the  innumerable  links  in  the 
chain  of  my  ideas  between  my  first  eager  examination 
of  the  route  by  sea  between  New  York  and  Tobago,  and 
yesterday's  employment,  when  I  was  closely  engaged  in 
measuring  the  marches  of  Frederick  across  the  moun- 
tains of  Bohemia. 

How  freakish  and  perverse  are  the  rovings  of  human 
curiosity !  The  surprise  which  Miss  Betterton  betrayed, 
when,  in  answer  to  her  inquiries  as  to  what  study  and 
what  book  I  prized  the  most,  you  told  her»that  I  thought 
of  little  else  than  of  the  art  of  moving  from  shore  to 
shore  across  the  water,  and  that  I  pored  over  Cook's 
Voyages  so  much  that  I  had  gotten  the  best  part  of  them 
by  rote,  was  very  natural.  She  must  have  been  puzzled 
to  conjecture  what  charms  one  of  my  sex  could  find  in 
the  study  of  maps  and  voyages.  Once  I  should  have 
been  just  a's  much  puzzled  myself.  Adieu.  J.  T. 


LETTER  LXIII. 
To  Mrs.  Talbot. 

New  York,  October  1. 

BE  not  angry  with  me,  dear  Jane.  Yet  I  am  sure, 
when  you  know  my  offence,  you  will  feel  a  great  deal  of 
indignation.  You  cannot  be  more  angry  with  me  than  I 


JANE    TALBOT.  223 

am  with  myself.  I  do  not  know  how  to  disclose  the  very 
rash  thing  I  have  done.  If  you  knew  my  compunction, 
you  would  pity  me. 

Cartwright  embarked  on  the  day  I  mentioned,  hut 
remained  for  some  days  wind-bound  at  the  Hook.  -Yes- 
terday he  unexpectedly  made  his  appearance  in  our 
apartment,  at  the  very  moment  when  I  was  perusing 
your  last  letter.  I  was  really  delighted  to  see  him,  and 
the  images  connected  with  him,  which  your  letter  had 
just  suggested,  threw  me  off  my  guard.  Finding  by 
whom  the  letter  was  written,  he  solicited  with  the  utmost 
eagerness  the  sight  of  it. 

Can  you  forgive  me  ?  My  heart  overflowed  with  pity 
for  the  excellent  man.  I  knew  the  transport  one  part 
of  your  letter  would  afford  him.  I  thought  that  no 
injury,  but  rather  happiness,  would  redound  to  yourself. 

I  now  see  that  I  was  guilty  of  a  most  culpable  breach 
of  confidence  in  showing  him  your  delicate  confession; 
but  I  was  bewitched,  I  think. 

I  can  write  of  nothing  else  just  now.  Much  as  I 
dread  your  displeasure,  I  could  not  rest  till  I  had  ac- 
knowledged my  fault  and  craved  your  pardon.  Forgive, 
I  beseech  you,  your  M.  MONTFORD. 


LETTER  LXIV. 
To  Mrs.  Talbot.    ' 

New  York,  December  12. 

I  CANNOT  leave  this  shore  without  thanking  the  mistress 
of  my  destiny  for  all  her  goodness.  Yet  I  should  not 
have  ventured  thus  to  address  you,  had  I  not  seen  a  let- 
ter— Dearest  creature,  blame  not  your  friend  for  betray- 
ing you.  Think  it  not  a  rash  or  injurious  confession 
that  you  have  made. 

And  is  it  possible  that  you  have  not  totally  forgotten 
the  sweet  scenes  of  our  childhood, —  that  absence  has 
not  degraded  me  in  your  opinion, —  and  that  my  devo- 
tion, if  it  continue  as  fervent  as  now,  may  look,  in  a  few 
years,  for  its  reward  ? 


224  JANE    TALBOT. 

Could  you  prevail  on  yourself  to  hide  these  generous 
emotions  from  me  ?  To  suffer  me  to  leave  my  country 
in  the  dreary  belief  that  all  former  incidents  were  held 
in  contempt,  and  that,  so  far  from  being  high  in  your 
esteem,  my  presence  was  troublesome,  my  existence  was 
irksome,  to  you? 

But  your  motive  was  beneficent  and  generous.  You 
were  content  to  be  thought  unfeeling  and  ungrateful  for 
the  sake  of  my  happiness.  I  rejoice  inexpressibly  in 
that  event  which  has  removed  the  veil  from  your  true 
sentiments.  -Nothing  but  pure  felicity  to  me  can  flow 
from  it.  Nothing  but  gratitude  and  honour  can  redound 
from  it  to  yourself. 

I  go ;  but  not  with  anguish  and  despondency  for  my 
companions.  I  am  buoyed  up  by  the  light  wings  of 
hope.  The  prospect  of  gaining  your  love  is  not  the  only 
source  of  my  present  happiness.  If  it  were,  I  should 
be  a  criminal  and  selfish  being.  No.  My  chief  delight 
is,  that  happiness  is  yet  in  store  for  you;  that,  should 
Heaven  have  denied  you  your  first  hope,  there  still  lives 
one  whose  claim  to  make  you  happy  will  not  be  rejected. 

G.  CARTWRIGHT. 


LETTER  LXV. 

To   Cr.  Cartwriglit. 

Banks  of  Delaware,  October  5. 

MY  BROTHER  : — 

It  would  avail  me  nothing  to  deny  the  confessions  to 
which  you  allude.  Neither  will  I  conceal  from  you  that 
I  am  much  grieved  at  the  discovery.  Far  am  I  from 
deeming  your  good  opinion  of  little  value;  but  in  this 
case  I  was  more  anxious  to  deserve  it  than  possess  it. 

Little,  indeed,  did  you  know  me,  when  you.  imagined 
me  insensible  to  your  merit  and  forgetful  of  the  happy 
days  of  our  childhood, — the  recollection  of  which  has  a 
thousand  times  made  my  tears  flow.  I  thank  Heaven 
that  the  evils  which  I  have  suffered  have  had  no  tendency 
to  deaden  my  affections,  to  narrow  my  heart. 


JANE   TALBOT.  225 

The  joy  which  I  felt  for  your  departure  was  far  from 
being  unmixed.  The  persuasion  that  my  friend  and 
brother  was  going  where  he  was  likely  to  find  that  tran- 
quillity of  which  his  stay  here  would  bereave  him,  but 
imperfectly  soothed  the  pangs  of  a  long  and  perhaps  an 
eternal  separation. 

Farewell ;  my  fervent  and  disinterested  blessings  go 
with  you.  Return  speedily  to  your  country,  but  bring 
with  you  a  heart  devoted  to  another,  and  only  glowing 
with  a  brotherly  affection  for  J.  T. 


LETTER  LXVI. 

To  Jane  Talbot. 

New  York,  November  15. 

THE  fear  that  what  I  have  to  communicate  may  be 
imparted  more  abruptly  and  with  false  or  exaggerated 
circumstances  induces  me  to  write  to  you. 

Yesterday  week,  a  ship  arrived  in  this  port  from  Ba- 
tavia,  in  which  my  husband's  brother,  Stephen  Montford, 
came  passenger. 

You  will  be  terrified  at  these  words ;  but  calm  your 
apprehensions.  Harry  does  not  accompany  him,  it  is 
true,  nor  are  we  acquainted  with  his  present  situation. 

The  story  of  their  unfortunate  voyage  cannot  be  mi- 
nutely related  noAv.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  a  wicked  and 
turbulent  wretch,  whom  they  shipped  in  the  West  Indies 
as  mate,  the  former  dying  on  the  voyage  thither,  gave 
rise,  by  his  intrigues  among  the  crew,  to  a  mutiny. 

After  a  prosperous  navigation  and  some  stay  atNootka, 
they  prepared  to  cross  the  ocean  to  Asia.  They  pursued 
the  usual  route  of  former  traders,  and,  after  touching  at 
the  Sandwich  Islands,  they  made  the  land  of  Japan. 

At  this  period,  the  mutiny,  which  had  long  been 
hatching,  broke  out.  The  whole  crew,  including  the 
mate,  joined  the  conspiracy.  Montford  and  my  brother 
were  the  objects  of  this  conspiracy. 

The  original  design  was  to  murder  them  both  and 
throw  their  bodies  into  the  sea ;  but  this  cruel  proposal 


226  JANE   TALBOT. 

was  thwarted  both  by  compassion  and  by  policy,  and  it 
was  resolved  to  set  my  brother  ashore  on  the  first  inhos- 
pitable land  they  should  meet,  and  retain  Montford  to 
assist  them  in  the  navigation  of  the  vessel,  designing 
to  destroy  him  when  his  services  should  no  longer  be 
necessary. 

This  scheme  was  executed  as  soon  as  they  came  in 
sight  of  an  outlying  isle  or  dry  sand-bank  on  the  eastern 
coast  of  Japan.  Here  they  seized  the  two  unsuspecting 
youths,  at  daybreak,  while  asleep  in  their  berths,  and, 
immediately  putting  out  their  boat,  landed  my  brother 
on  the  shore,  without  clothing  or  provisions  of  any  kind. 
Montford  petitioned  to  share  the  fate  of  his  friend,  but 
they  would  not  listen  to  it. 

Six  days  afterwards,  they  lighted  on  a  Spanish  ship 
bound  to  Manilla,  which  was  in  want  of  water.  A  party 
of  the  Spaniards  came  on  board  in  search  of  some  supply 
of  that  necessary  article. 

On  their  coming,  Montford  was  driven  below  and  dis- 
abled from  giving,  by  his  cries,  any  alarm.  The  sentinel 
who  guarded  him  had  received  orders  to  keep  him  in  that 
situation  till  the  visitants  had  departed.  From  some 
impulse  of  humanity,  or  mistake  of  orders,  the  sentinel 
freed  him  from  restraint  a  few  minutes  earlier  than  had 
been  intended,  and  he  got  on  deck  before  the  departing 
strangers  had  gone  to  any  considerable  distance  from  the 
ship.  He  immediately  leaped  into  the  sea  and  made  for 
the  boat,  to  which,  being  a  very  vigorous  swimmer,  he 
arrived  in  safety. 

The  mutineers,  finding  their  victim  had  escaped,  endea- 
voured to  make  the  best  of  their  way,  but  were  soon  over- 
taken by  the  Spanish  vessel,  to  whose  officers  Montford 
made  haste  to  explain  the  true  state  of  affairs.  They 
were  carried  to  Manilla,  where  Montford  sold  his  vessel 
and  cargo  on  very  advantageous  terms.  From  thence, 
after  many  delays,  he  got  to  Batavia,  and  from  thence 
returned  home. 

I  have  thus  given  you,  my  friend,  an  imperfect  account 
o£  their  misfortunes.  I  need  not  add  that  no  tidings  has 
been  received,  or  can  reasonably  be  hoped  ever  to  be  re- 
ceived, of  my  brother. 


JANE   TALBOT.  227 

I  could  not  write  on  such  a  subject  sooner.  For  some 
days  I  had  thoughts  of  being  wholly  silent  on  this  news. 
Indeed,  my  emotions  Avould  not  immediately  permit  me 
to  use  the  pen ;  but  I  have  concluded,  and  it  is  my  hus- 
band's earnest  advice,  to  tell  you  the  whole  truth. 

Be  not  too  much  distressed,  my  sister,  my  friend.  Fain 
would  I  give  you  that  consolation  which  I  myself  want. 
I  entreat  you,  let  me  hear  from  you  soon,  and  tell  me 
that  you  are  not  very  much  afflicted.  Yet  I  could  not 
believe  you  if  you  did.  Write  to  me  speedily,  however. 


LETTER  LXVII. 
To  Mrs.  Talbot. 

New  York,  November  23. 

You  do  not  write  to  me,  my  dear  Jane.  Why  are  you 
silent?  Surely  you  cannot  be  indifferent  to  my  happi- 
ness. You  must  know  how  painful,  at  a  moment  like 
this,  your  silence  must  prove. 

I  have  waited  from  day  to  day  in  expectation  of  a 
letter;  but  more  than  a  week  has  passed,  and  none  has 
come.  Let  me  hear  from  you  immediately,  I  entreat 
you. 

I  am  afraid  you  are  ill ;  or  perhaps  you  are  displeased 
with  me.  Unconsciously  I  may  have  given  you  offence. 

But,  indeed,  I  can  easily  suspect  the  cause  of  your 
silence.  I  trembled  with  terror  when  I  sent  you  tidings 
of  our  calamity.  I  know  the  impetuosity  of  your  feel- 
ings, and  the  effects  of  your  present  solitude.  Would 
to  Heaven  you  were  anywhere  but  where  you  are! 
Would  to  Heaven  you  were  once  more  with  us ! 

Let  me  beseech  you  to  return  to  us  immediately.  Mr. 
M.  is  anxious  to  go  for  you.  He  wanted  to  set  out  im- 
mediately on  his  brother's  arrival,  and  to  be  the  bearer 
of  my  letter,  but  I  prevailed  on  him  to  forbear  until  I 
heard  from  you. 

Do  not,  if  you  have  any  regard  for  me,  delay  answer- 
ing me  a  moment  longer.  M.  M. 


228  JANE   TALBOT. 

LETTER  LXVIIL 

To  Mrs.  Montford. 

Banks  of  Delaware,  November  26. 

I  BESEECH  you,  dear  Mrs.  Montford,  take  some  mea- 
sures for  drawing  our  dear  Jane  from  this  place.  There 
is  no  remedy  but  absence  from  this  spot,  cheerful  com- 
pany and  amusing  engagements,  for  the  sullen  grief  Avhich 
has  seized  her.  Ever  since  the  arrival  of  your  letter, 
giving  us  the  fatal  tidings  of  your  brother's  misfortune, 
she  has  been — in  a  strange  way — I  am  almost  afraid  to 
tell  you.  I  know  how  much  you  love  her ;  but,  indeed, 
indeed,  unless  somebody  with  more  spirit  and  skill  than 
I  possess  will  undertake  to  console  and  divert  her,  I  am 
fearful  we  shall  lose  her  forever. 

I  can  do  nothing  for  her  relief.  You  know  what  a  poor 
creature  I  am.  Instead  of  summoning  up  courage  to 
assist  another  in  distress,  the  sight  of  it  confuses  and 
frightens  me.  Never,  I  believe,  was  there  such  another 
helpless,  good-for-nothing  creature  in  existence.  Poor 
Jane's  affecting  ways  only  make  me  miserable;  and, 
instead  of  my  being  of  any  use  to  her,  her  presence  de- 
prives me  of  all  power  to  attend  to  my  family  and  friends. 
I  endeavour  to  avoid  her,  though,  indeed,  that  requires 
but  little  pains  to  effect,  since  she  will  not  be  seen  but 
when  she  cannot  choose ;  for  whenever  she  looks  at  me 
steadily  there  is  such  expression  in  her  features,  some- 
thing so  woeful,  so  wild,  that  I  am  struck  with  terror.  It 
never  fails  to  make  me  cry  heartily. 

Come  hither  yourself,  or  send  somebody  immediately. 
If  you  do  not,  I  dread  the  consequence. 


JANE    TALBOT.  229 

LETTER  LXIX. 

To  Mr.  Montford. 

New  Haven,  February  10. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND  : — 

This  letter  is  written  in  extreme  pain ;  yet  no  pain  that 
I  ever  felt,  no  external  pain  possible  for  me  to  feel,  is 
equal  to  the  torment  I  derive  from  suspense.  Good 
Heaven!  what  an  untoward  accident!  to  he  forcibly 
immured  in  a  tavern-chamber ;  when  the  distance  is  so 
small  between  me  and  that  certainty  after  which  my  soul 


I  ought  not  thus  to  alarm  my  beloved  friends,  but  I 
know  not  what  I  write :  my  head  is  in  confusion,  my  heart 
in  tumults ;  a  delirium,  more  the  eifect  of  a  mind  stretched 
upon  the  rack  of  impatience  than  of  limbs  shattered  and 
broken,  whirls  me  out  of  myself. 

Not  a  moment  of  undisturbed  repose  have  I  enjoyed 
for  the  last  two  months.  If  awake,  omens  and  conjec- 
tures, menacing  fears,  and  half-formed  hopes,  have  haunted 
and  harassed  me.  If  asleep,  dreams  of  agonizing  forms 
and  ever- varying  hues  have  thronged  my  fancy  and  driven 
away  peace. 

In  less  than  an  hour  after  landing  at  Boston,  I  placed 
myself  in  the  swiftest  stage,  and  have  travelled  night 
and  day,  till  within  a  mile  of  this  town,  when  the  carriage 
was  overturned  and  my  left  arm  terribly  shattered.  I 
was  drawn  with  difficulty  hither ;  and  my  only  hope  of 
being  once  more  well  is  founded  on  my  continuance,  for 
I  know  not  how  long,  in  one  spot  and  one  posture. 

By  this  time,  the  well-known  hand  has  told  you  who 
it  is  that  writes  this : — the  exile ;  the  fugitive ;  whom  four 
long  years  of  absence  and  silence  have  not,  I  hope,  erased 
from  your  remembrance,  banished  from  your  love,  or  even 
totally  excluded  from  the  hope  of  being  seen  again. 

Yet  that  hope,  surely,  must  have  been  long  ago  dis- 
missed. Acquainted  as  you  are  with  some  part  of  my 
destiny ;  of  my  being  left  on  the  desert  shore  of  Japan ; 
on  the  borders  of  a  new  world, — a  world  civilized  indeed, 
20 


230  JANE    TALBOT. 

and  peopled  by  men,  but  existing  in  almost  total  sepa- 
ration from  the  other  families  of  mankind ;  with  language, 
manners,  and  policy  almost  incompatible  with  the  exist- 
ence of  a  stranger  among  them ;  all  entrance  or  egress 
from  which  being  commonly  supposed  to  be  prohibited 
by  iron  laws  and  inflexible  despotism ;  that  I,  a  stranger, 
naked,  forlorn,  cast  upon  a  sandy  beach  frequented  but 
at  rare  intervals  and  by  savage  fishermen,  should  find 
iny  way  into  the  heart  of  this  wonderful  empire,  and 
finally  explore  my  way  back  to  my  native  shore,  are 
surely  most  strange  and  incredible  achievements.  Yet 
all  this,  my  friend,  has  been  endured  and  performed  by 
your  Golden. 

Finding  it  impossible  to  move  immediately  from  this 
place,  and  this  day's  post  having  gone  out  before  my 
arrival,  I  employed  a  man  to  carry  you  these  assurances 
of  my  existence  and  return,  and  to  bring  me  back  intel- 
ligence of  your  welfare ;  and  some  news  concerning — 
may  I  perish  if  I  can,  at  this  moment,  write  her  name  ! 
Every  moment,  every  mile  that  has  brought  me  nearer 
to  her,  or  rather  nearer  to  certainty  of  her  life  or  death, 
her  happiness  or  misery,  has  increased  my  trepidation, — 
added  new  tremors  to  my  heart. 

I  have  some  time  to  spare.  In  spite  of  my  impa- 
tience, my  messenger  cannot  start  within  a  few  hours.  I 
am  little  fitted,  in  my  present  state  of  pain  and  suspense, 
to  Avrite  intelligibly.  Yet  what  else  can  I  do  but  write  ? 
and  will  you  not,  in  your  turn,  be  impatient  to  know  by 
what  means  I  have  once  more  set  my  foot  in  my  native 
land? 

I  will  fill  up  the  interval,  till  my  messenger  is  ready, 
by  writing.  I  will  give  you  some  hints  of  my  adven- 
tures. All  particulars  must  be  deferred  till  I  see  you. 
Heaven  grant  that  I  may  once  more  see  you  and  my 
sister !  Four  months  ago  you  were  well,  but  that  interval 
is  large  enough  to  breathe  ten  thousand  disasters.  Ex- 
pect not  a  distinct  or  regular  story.  That,  I  repeat, 
must  be  deferred  till  we  meet.  Many  a  long  day  would 
be  consumed  in  the  telling ;  and  that  which  was  hazard 
or  hardship  in  the  encounter  and  the  sufferance  will  be 
pleasant  to  remembrance  and  delightful  in  narration. 


JANE   TALBOT.  231 

You  know  by  what  accident,  and  in  what  remote  and 
inhospitable  region,  Stephen  and  I  were  separated.  How 
did  I  know,  you  will  perhaps  ask,  the  extent  of  your 
knowledge?  By  strange  and  unexpected  means;  but. 
have  patience,  and  in  due  time  I  will  tell  you. 

What  a  scene  did  I  pass  through  !  what  uncouth  forms, 
strange  accents,  and  ferocious  demeanour  presented  them- 
selves in  the  fishermen  that  found  me,  half  famished,  on 
a  sand-bank !  My  fate,  whether  death  or  servitude,  de- 
pended on  the  momentary  impulse  of  untutored  hearts, — 
perhaps  on  some  adroitness  and  dexterity  in  myself. 

They  carried  me  from  the  solitary  shore,  into  the 
heart  of  a  cultivated  island.  Rumour  became  instantly 
busy,  and  at  length  reached  the  ears  of  a  sort  of  feudal 
or  territorial  lord.  By  his  orders,  I  was  brought  into 
his  rustic  palace.  I  found  humanity  and  curiosity  in 
this  man.  I  passed  several  months  in  his  house,  ac- 
quiring gradually  a  smattering  of  the  language,  and 
some  insight  into  the  policy  and  manners  of  the  people. 

I  endeavoured  to  better  my  condition  and  gain  respect 
to  my  person  by  the  display  of  all  the  accomplishments 
of  which  I  was  master.  These,  alas,  were  but  few ;  yet 
some  of  them  were  not  altogether  useless ;  and  the  hu- 
mane temper  of  one  whom  I  may  call  my  patron  secured 
me  gentle  and  even  respectful  treatment. 

After  some  months  this  lord,  whose  name  was  Teke- 
hatsin,  left  his  island,  and  set  out  on  a  journey  to  the 
metropolis.  He  left  me  with  promises  of  the  continuance 
of  his  favour  and  protection,  and  urged  his  regard  for 
my  safety  as  a  reason  for  not  taking  me  along  with  him. 
I  heard  nothing  of  him  for  six  weeks  after  his  departure. 
Then  a  messenger  arrived,  with  orders  to  bring  me  up  to 
his  master. 

The  incidents  of  this  journey,  the  aspects  of  the  coun- 
try, of  the  cities,  of  the  villages  through  which  I  passed, 
will  afford  an  inexhaustible  theme  for  future  conversa- 
tions. I  reached  at  length  the  residence  of  Tekehatsin 
in  the  chief  city  of  the  kingdom,  the  name  of  which  is 
Jedho.  Shortly  after  I  was  introduced  to  one  in  whom 
I  recognised  a  native  of  Europe,  and  therefore,  in  some 
respects,  a  countryman. 


232  JANE   TALBOT. 

This  person's  name  was  Holtz.  He  was  the  agent  of 
the  Dutch  East  India  Company  in  Japan.  He  was  then 
at  court  in  a  sort  of  diplomatic  character.  He  was 
likewise  a  physician  and  man  of  science.  He  had  even 
been  in  America,  and  found  no  difficulty  in  conversing 
with  me  in  my  native  language. 

You  will  easily  imagine  the  surprise  and  pleasure 
which  such  a  meeting  afforded  me.  It  likewise  opened 
a  door  to  my  return  to  Europe,  as  a  large  trade  is  regu- 
larly maintained  between  Java  and  Japan. 

Many  obstacles,  however,  in  the  views  which  Teke- 
hatsin  had  formed,  of  profit  and  amusement,  from  my  re- 
maining in  his  service,  and  in  the  personal  interests  and 
wishes  of  my  friend  Holtz,  opposed  this  design ;  nor  was 
I  able  to  accomplish  it,  but  on  condition  of  returning. 

I  confess  to  you,  my  friend,  my  heart  was  not  ex- 
tremely averse  to  this  condition. 

I  left  America  with  very  faint  hopes,  and  no  expecta- 
tion, of  ever  returning.  The  longer  I  resided  among 
this  race  of  men,  the  melancholy  and  forlornness  of  my 
feelings  declined.  Prospects  of  satisfaction  from  the 
novelty  and  grandeur  of  the  scene  into  which  I  had  en- 
tered began  to  open  upon  me;  sentiments  of  affection 
and  gratitude  for  Holtz,  and  even  for  the  Japanese  lord, 
took  root  in  my  heart.  Still,  however,  happiness  was 
bound  to  scenes  and  to  persons  very  distant  from  my  new 
country,  and  a  restlessness  forever  haunted  me,  which 
nothing  could  appease  but  some  direct  intelligence  from 
you  and  from  Jane  Talbot.  By  returning  to  Europe,  I 
could  likewise  be  of  essential  service  to  Holtz,  whose 
family  were  Saxons,  and  whose  commercial  interests  re- 
quired the  presence  of  a  trusty  agent  for  a  few  months 
at  Hamburg. 

Let  me  carry  you,  in  few  words,  through  the  difficul- 
ties of  my  embarkation,  and  the  incidents  of  a  short  stay 
at  Batavia,  and  a  long  voyage  over  half  the  world  to 
Hamburg. 

Shortly  after  my  return  to  Hamburg,  from  an  excur- 
sion into  Saxony  to  see  Holtz's  friends,  I  met  with  Mr. 
Cartwright,  an  American.  After  much  fluctuation,  I 
had  previously  resolved  to  content  myself  with  writing 


JANE    TALBOT.  233 

to  you,  of  whom  I  received  such  verbal  information  from 
several  of  our  countrymen  as  removed  my  anxiety  on 
your  account.  A  very  plausible  tale,  told  me  by  some 
one  that  pretended  to  know,  of  Mrs.  Talbot's  marriage 
with  a  Mr.  Cartwright,  extinguished  every  new-born 
wish  to  revisit  my  native  land,  and  I  expected  to  set  sail 
on  my  return  to  India,  before  it  could  be  possible  to  hear 
from  you. 

I  was  on  the  eve  of  my  departure,  when  the  name  of 
Cartwright,  an  American,  then  at  Hamburg,  reached  my 
ears.  The  similarity  of  his  name  to  that  of  the  happy 
man  who  had  supplanted  the  poor  wanderer  in  the  affec- 
tions of  Jane,  and  a  suspicion  that  they  might  possibly 
be  akin,  and,  consequently,  that  this  might  afford  me 
some  information  as  to  the  character  or  merits  of  that 
Cartwright,  made  me  throw  myself  in  his  way. 

You  may  easily  imagine,  what  I  shall  defer  relating, 
the  steps  which  led  us  to  a  knowledge  of  each  other,  and 
by  which  I  discovered  that  this  Cartwright  was  the  one 
mentioned  to  me,  and  that,  instead  of  being  already  the 
husband  of  my  Jane,  his  hopes  of  her  favour  depended 
on  the  certain  proof  of  my  death. 

Cartwright's  behaviour  was  in  the  highest  degree  dis- 
interested. He  might  easily  have  left  me  in  my  original 
error,  and  a  very  few  days  would  have  sent  me  on  a  voy- 
age which  would  have  been  equivalent  to  my  death.  On 
the  contrary,  his  voluntary  information,  and  a  letter 
which  he  showed  me,  written  in  Jane's  hand,  created  a 
new  soul  in  my  breast.  Every  foreign  object  vanished, 
and  every  ancient  sentiment,  connected  with  our  unfortu- 
nate loves,  was  instantly  revived.  Ineffable  tenderness, 
and  an  impatience  next  to  rage  to  see  her,  reigned  in 
my  heart. 

Yet,  my  friend,  with  all  my  confidence  of  a  favourable 
reception  from  Jane, — her  conduct  now  exempt  from  the 
irresistible  control  of  her  mother,  and  her  tenderness  for 
me  as  fervent  as  ever, — yet,  since  so  excellent  a  man  as 
Cartwright  existed,  since  his  claims  were,  in  truth,  ante- 
cedent to  mine,  since  my  death  or  everlasting  absence 
would  finally  insure  success  to  these  claims,  since  his 
character  Avas  blemished  by  none  of  those  momentous 
20* 


234  JANE    TALBOT. 

errors  with  which  mine  was  loaded,  since  that  harmony 
of  opinion  on  religious  subjects,  without  which  marriage 
can  never  he  a  source  of  happiness  to  hearts  touched  by 
a  true  and  immortal  passion,  was  perfect  in  his  case, — 
never  should  mere  passion  have  seduced  me  to  her  feet. 
If  my  reflections  and  experience  had  not  changed  my 
character, — if  all  her  views  as  to  the  final  destiny  and 
present  obligations  of  human  beings  had  not  become 
mine, — I  should  have  deliberately  ratified  the  act  of  my 
eternal  banishment. 

Yes,  my  friend ;  this  weather-beaten  form  and  sunburnt; 
face  are  not  more  unlike  what  you  once  knew,  than  my 
habits  and  opinions  now  and  formerly.  The  incidents  of 
a  long  voyage,  the  vicissitudes  through  wThich  I  have 
passed,  have  given  strength  to  my  frame,  while  the  oppor- 
tunities and  occasions  for  wisdom  which  these  have  af- 
forded me  have  made  my  mind  whole.  I  have  awakened 
from  my  dreams  of  doubt  and  misery,  not  to  the  cold  and 
vague  belief,  but  to  the  living  and  delightful  consciousness, 
of  every  tie  that  can  bind  man  to  his  Divine  Parent  and 
Judge. 

Again  I  must  refer  you  to  our  future  interviews.  A 
broken  and  obscure  tale  it  would  be  which  I  could  now 
relate.  I  am  hurried,  by  my  fears  and  suspenses — Yet 
it  would  give  you  pleasure  to  know  every  thing  as  soon 
as  possible — some  time  likewise  must  elapse — You  and 
my  sister  have  always  been  wise.  The  lessons  of  true 
piety  it  is  the  business  of  your  lives  to  exemplify  and  to 
teach.  Henceforth,  if  that  principle,  which  has  been  my 
stay  and  my  comfort  in  all  the  slippery  paths  and  un- 
looked-for perils  from  which  I  have  just  been  delivered, 
desert  not  my  future  steps,  I  hope  to  be  no  mean  example 
and  no  feeble  teacher  of  the  same  lessons.  Indefatigable 
zeal  and  strenuous  efforts  are  indeed  incumbent  on  me  in 
proportion  to  the  extent  of  my  past  misconduct  and  the 
depth  of  my  former  degeneracy. 

By  what  process  of  reflection  I  became  thus,  you  shall 
speedily  know:  yet  can  you  be  at  a  loss  to  imagine  it? 
You,  who  have  passed  through  someAvhat  similar  changes ; 
who  always  made  allowances  for  the  temerity  of  youth, 
the  fascinations  of  novelty;  who  always  predicted  that  a 


JANE   TALBOT.  235 

few  more  years,  the  events  of  my  peculiar  destiny,  the 
leisure  of  my  long  voyage,  and  that  goodness  of  intention 
to  which  you  were  ever  kind  enough  to  admit  my  claims, 
would  ultimately  provide  the  remedy  for  all  errors  and 
evils,  and  make  me  worthy  of  the  undivided  love  of  all 
good  men, — you,  who  have  had  this  experience,  and  who 
have  always  regarded  me  in  this  light,  will  not  wonder 
that  reflection  has,  at  length,  raised  me  to  the  tranquil 
and  steadfast  height  of  simple  and  true  piety. 

Such,  my  friend,  were  my  inducements  to  return ;  but 
first  it  was  necessary  to  explain,  by  letter,  to  Holtz — But 
my  messenger  is  at  the  door,  eager  to  begone.  Take 
this,  my  friend.  Bring  yourself,  or  send  back  by  the 
same  messenger,  without  a  moment's  delay,  tidings  of 
her,  and  of  your  safety.  As  to  me,  be  not  much  con- 
cerned on  my  account.  I  am  solemnly  assured  by  my 
surgeon  that  nothing  but  time  and  a  tranquil  mind  are 
necessary  to  restore  me  to  health.  The  last  boon  no  hand 
but  yours  can  confer  on  your  H.  GOLDEN. 


LETTER  LXX. 

To  Henry  Golden. 

New  York,  February  12. 

AND  are  you  then  alive  ?  Are  you  then  returned  ?  Still 
do  you  remember,  still  love,  the  ungrateful  and  capricious 
Jane  ?  Have  you  indeed  come  back  to  soothe  her  almost 
broken  heart, — to  rescue  her  from  the  grave, — to  cheer 
her  with  the  prospect  of  peaceful  and  bright  days  yet  to 
come? 

Oh,  my  full  heart !  Sorrow  has  not  hitherto  been  able 
quite  to  burst  this  frail  tenement.  I  almost  fear  that 
joy, — so  strange  to  me  is  joy,  and  so  far,  so  very  far, 
beyond  my  notions  of  possibility  was  your  return, — I 
almost  fear  that  joy  will  do  what  sorrow  was  unable  to  do. 

Can  it  be  that  Golden — that  selfsame,  dear,  pensive 
face,  those  eyes,  benignly  and  sweetly  mild,  and  that 
heart-dissolving  voice,  have  escaped  so  many  storms,  so 
many  dangers  ?  Was  it  love  for  me  that  led  you  from 


236  JANE    TALBOT. 

the  extremity  of  the  world  ?  and  have  you,  indeed,  brought 
back  with  you  a  heart  full  of  "ineffable  tenderness"  for 
me? 

Unspeakably  unworthy  am  I  of  your  love.  Time  and 
grief,  dear  Hal,  have  bereft  me  of  the  glossy  hues,  the 
laughing  graces,  which  your  doting  judgment  once  as- 
cribed to  me.  But  what  will  not  the  joy  of  your  return 
effect?  I  already  feel  lightsome  and  buoyant  as  a  bird. 
My  head  is  giddy ;  but,  alas,  you  are  not  well, — yet,  you 
assure  us,  not  dangerously  sick.  Nothing,  did  you  not  say, 
but  time  and  repose  necessary  to  heal  you  ?  Will  not  my 
presence,  my  nursing,  hasten  thy  restoration?  Tuesday 
evening — they  say  it  can't  possibly  be  sooner — I  am  with 
you.  No  supporters  shall  you  have  but  my  arms;  no 
pillow  but  my  breast.  Every  holy  rite  shall  instantly  be 
called  in  to  make  us  one.  And  Avhen  once  united,  nothing 
but  death  shall  ever  part  us  again.  What  did  I  say? 
Death  itself — at  least  thy  death — shall  never  dissever 
that  bond. 

Your  brother  will  take  this.  Your  sister — she  is  the 
most  excellent  of  women,  and  worthy  to  be  your  sister — 
she  and  I  will  follow  him  to-morrow.  He  will  tell  you 
much  which  my  hurried  spirits  will  not  allow  me  to  tell 
you  in  this  letter.  He  knows  every  thing.  He  has  been 
a  brother  since  my  mother's  death.  She  is  dead,  Henry. 
She  died  in  my  arms ;  and  will  it  not  give  you  pleasure  to 
know  that  her  dying  lips  blessed  me,  and  expressed  the 
hope  that  you  would  one  day  return  to  find,  in  my  au- 
thorized love,  some  recompense  for  all  the  evils  to  which 
her  antipathies  subjected  you?  She  hoped,  indeed,  that 
observation  and  experience  would  detect  the  fallacy  of 
your  former  tenets ;  that  you  would  become  wise,  not  in 
speculation  only,  but  in  practice,  and  be,  in  every  respect, 
deserving  of  the  happiness  and  honour  which  would  attend 
the  gift  of  her  daughter's  hand  and  heart. 

My  words  cannot  utter,  but  thy  own  heart  perhaps  can 
conceive,  the  rapture  which  thy  confession  of  a  change  in 
thy  opinions  has  afforded  me.  A II  my  prayers,  Henry, 
have  not  been  merely  for  your  return.  Indeed,  whatever 
might  have  been  the  dictates,  however  absolute  the  domi- 
nion, of  passion,  union  with  you  would  have  been  very 


JANE   TALBOT.  237 

far  from  completing  my  felicity,  unless  our  hopes  and 
opinions,  as  well  as  our  persons  and  hearts,  were  united. 
Now  can  I  look  up  with  confidence  and  exultation  to 
the  shade  of  my  revered  and  beloved  mother.  Now  can  I 
safely  invoke  her  presence  and  her  blessing  on  a  union 
which  death  will  have  no  power  to  dissolve.  Oh,  what 
sweet  peace,  what  serene  transport,  is  there  in  the  persua- 
sion that  the  selected  soul  will  continue  forever  to  com- 
mune with  my  soul,  mingle  with  mine  in  its  adoration  of 
the  same  Divine  Parent,  and  partake  with  me  in  every 
thought,  in  every  emotion,  both  here  and  hereafter! 

Never,  my  friend,  without  this  persuasion,  never  should 
I  have  known  one  moment  of  true  happiness.  Mar- 
riage, indeed,  instead  of  losing  its  attractions  in  conse- 
quence of  your  errors,  drew  thence  only  new  recom- 
mendations, since  with  a  zeal,  a  tenderness,  and  a  faith 
like  mine,  my  efforts  to  restore  such  a  heart  and  such  a 
reason  as  yours  could  not  fail  of  success ;  but  till  that 
restoration  were  accomplished,  never,  I  repeat,  should  I 
have  tasted  repose  even  in  your  arms. 

Poor  Miss  Jessup  !  She  is  dead,  Henry, — yet  not  be- 
fore she  did  thee  and  me  poor  justice.  Her  death-bed 
confession  removed  my  mother's  fatal  suspicions.  This 
confession  and  the  perusal  of  all  thy  letters,  and  thy 
exile,  which  I  afterwards  discovered  was  known  to  her 
very  early,  though  unsuspected  by  me  till  after  her  de- 
cease, brought  her  to  regard  thee  with  some  compassion 
and  some  respect. 

I  can  write  no  more ;  but  must  not  conclude  till  I  have 
offered  thee  the  tenderest,  most  fervent  vows  of  a  heart 
that  ever  was  and  always  will  be  thine  own.  Witness, 

JANE  TALBOT. 


THE  END. 


STEREOTYPED  BY  L.  JOHNSON  *  CO. 
PHILADELPHIA. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


MAR  9  _  1961 


^ 


*»** 

Form  L9-32m-8,'57(.C8680s4)444 


3  1158  01016  7962 


PS 

H 
J25 


